The Counterfeit
by Arisprite
Summary: Holmes' death devastated Watson, so when Watson starts getting mysterious letters from said detective with tasks of questionable legality for him to do, Watson is only too happy. But things may not be all they seem. EMPT AU, Rated T, No slash. Please R&R!
1. Give our enemies means

A/N: Hi there! Here is the prologue to my first multi-chapter, Sherlock Holmes story! *waits for applause* ....hehe, maybe you all should read it first, huh? Well, this plot bunny bit me a while back, and I spent alot of time getting it planned out, hopefully coherently. I have about 5 chapters written already, and am still writing at a good pace when I'm not being buried under homework (My professors are a little sadistic). I will hopefully update quickly, but I'll probably be quicker if you tell me what you think about it. *cough-hint-cough*

This is an AU of Empty House. No slash, rated T for later chapters where there will be emotional angst, and possible (heck, who am I kidding, definite) whumping. Perhaps slight language, we'll see.

Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes, Watson, Lestrade or anybody else recognizable. This was written for the author's enjoyment, and there is no way I'm making any money off this. :D

Enough of me! Enjoy!

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The shaft of the arrow had been feathered with one of the eagle's own plumes. We often give our enemies the means of our own destruction.

Aesop** (620 BC - 560 BC)**, _The Eagle and the Arrow_

**Prologue**

The man waited till the old lady had gone out. He had his orders, there was to be no trace. Nothing could be disturbed, no indication that anything had been taken at all.

He lingered for nearly three hours, that spring morning at Baker Street, lounging against the lamp post, watching. He was cursed at by the lamp lighter, and told to shove off. He merely moved down to lean against the pole he had already extinguished. Nothing could take him from his post.

Finally the woman left the flat, dressed all in black. She was headed to the funeral, he's been told. It was the perfect opportunity to get the items needed. He waited till she alighted a cab before stepping across the street to the front door. He expertly unlocked the door, using his various picks and tools, then gently placing them back into the case he carried them in. His skill with these little slivers of metal were his life and livelihood. And the only reason he was kept around.

That was why he had to follow his orders to the letter, no matter how unused he was to them coming from a different quarter than usual. Colonel Moran expected results, and that was all that mattered.

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A/N: Hope you are intrigued :) The next chapter will be up very soon. R&R?


	2. To Be Alone

A/N: I finally finished that pile of homework that took up my entire holiday! So as a reward, I'm posting Chapter 1! On a side note, if you found the prologue a bit familiar, it was because half of it was published in another of my stories as a preview. Just so's you know :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes, Watson et al.

Enjoy!

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To be an adult is to be alone.

Jean Rostand** (1894 - 1977)**, _Thoughts of a biologist (1939)_

**Chapter 1**

It was with a heavy heart that I opened that morning's copy of the Strand magazine. I nearly put it down, but steeled myself to read my own phrases, words and sentences that had cut me to the quick to write. I swallowed as I read those final words. "…the best and wisest man whom I have ever known."

I clenched the paper in my hands, the paleness of my tight wrist standing out starkly against my black cuff. I was still in mourning for not only the death of my dearest friend two and a half years ago, but for the passing of my darling wife only six months past. It had near crushed me, to see my happy existence so thoroughly demolished in such a short time. I was recovered, for the most part, and had written Sherlock Holmes' final adventure, baring my heart to the world.

I sighed, set the magazine on the table, picking up my tea. I nibbled at my breakfast, and was gulping the last of the tepid cup when my housekeeper brought in the post. I had barely picked it up, when I happened to glance at the clock above the mantle. A quarter to eight? I was going to be late!

I threw down the stack of letters, and rushed to my bedroom to get dressed. I needed to be on my way to open five minutes ago. I was grateful that all the adventures with Holmes had stream-lined my toilet. I could do it in six and one half minutes, and as such I was pulling up outside my practice at 7:55 on the dot.

After the rush of the morning, the rest of the day went very slowly. I had my usual stream of malingering, and hypochondriac patients, and slumped into my chair at noon feeling drained.

I rubbed my head. I had just told Lady Hadfield that, for the last time, she was not ill in the slightest, and that in fact she had the healthiest pair of lungs I had ever heard. She ignored me thoroughly. I was completely at my wits end with her!

I shook my head, and unwrapped the sandwich my housekeeper had made, sniffing a little at the insides. The woman always put too much salt.

Not that I ever ate much of it anyway. The half eaten sandwich was occupying the dubious honor of a position atop my journal stack, when Inspector Lestrade was shown in.

I looked up from my paperwork and smiled towards him.

"Hullo Inspector," I said, as I rose and extended my hand. He took it and shook heartily. "How are you?"

"I should ask the same of you, Doctor. You keeping alright?" He eyed my nibbled sandwich, and then looked at me with concern. I flushed a little, and looked at the ground.

"I'm….as well as I could be." I finally said, which told little, but also too much. Lestrade's eyes glinted in sympathy, and I smiled as well as I could back at him. "Thank you for asking."

I gestured him over to the two armchairs by the window.

"So," I said as I sat down. "What can I do for you?" Lestrade had taken to coming to ask for my advice and medical skills on a good number of cases that had baffled Scotland Yard the past few years. I cannot say I was ever that much of help, and certainly not as much as my friend was, but it was pleasant to be in the familiar surroundings, and I prided myself on keeping my slight deductive skills in practice. I liked to imagine Holmes would be pleased.

Lestrade removed a small book from his pocket, and handed it to me. I opened it, and began to read up on some points of the case. I ended up going to the Yard with him to perform the autopsy on the body, leaving my practice closed for a few hours. The diversion that of a trip to Scotland Yard was well worth the disgruntled patients I would have to deal with tomorrow.

"Well, a closed case if I ever saw one." Lestrade said to me later that day, slapping me on the shoulder. I gave him a quick smile, as I washed my hands.

"Yes, it did end up rather satisfactorily." I said.

"I suspected something when the murderer left that rose on the floor by the body, but I never thought that the cause of death would end up being a severe allergic reaction to it. Ingenious of the killer, I daresay."

"Indeed" I answered. I turned from the washbasin, and grabbed my coat from the stand. Lestrade suddenly grew rather uncomfortable looking as I shrugged it on. I raised my eyebrow at him, and he blushed, then chuckled at himself.

"Can't get anything past you, can I?" He asked.

"I was trained by the best." I murmured, and felt a shadow fall upon our formerly pleasant exchange. Lestrade nodded sadly.

"What was it you wanted to ask me?" I turned towards the door of the mortuary as I spoke. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Well the Missus is roasting up a duck for supper tonight, and I was..we were wondering if you'd like to..uh join us?"

I froze with my hand on the doorknob for a moment, before turning to him.

"I..Thank you for the invitation, Inspector, but I'm afraid I'm rather worn out today." I murmured. He nodded, and we mumbled our goodbyes.

I walked home, feeling like I needed the stimulation of the brisk spring air, and limped into my home in Kensington, hoping for nothing more than a warm meal, and a hot bath.

I ate most of the plate my housekeeper had left warm for me, then I wandered into my darkened sitting room. My eyes fell on the stack of mail that sat on the table where I had left them at breakfast.

I turned up the gas and began flipping through them. They were the normal notes and bills of a city doctor. There was nothing worth mentioning until I got to the bottom of the stack, when a large letter, with stiff paper, and a strange seal caught my eye. I flipped it over to see who it was from, and there I received the greatest shock of my life. There was my address in Kensington, scrawled in the unmistakable hand of my dear friend Sherlock Holmes!

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A/N: Please tell me what you think of it! Next chapter up soon, now I'm going to bed. :D


	3. The More Joy

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?"

Kahlil Gibran

**Chapter 2**

A fine mist seemed to swirl in front of the words for a moment, and I nearly collapsed onto the floor in shock. Barring this, I managed to sink into the arm chair, gripping the thick envelope with both hands. I took a moment, staring at it. It could not be!

Finally, I realized I was near to crushing the incredible letter. I laughed, in pure relief, joy, anger, fear….I wasn't sure anymore. I was sure that I was nearing hysteria, and I tried to calm myself.

The postage was from Switzerland, and after looking once more at the fantastic lettering on the front, I tore into the envelope with shaking hands.

The inner letter was filled with more of the same precise writing, and I felt a thrill in reading the greetings.

_My Dear Watson,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well. As well as could be expected, I suppose. _

_I must first offer you my most sincere condolences. I received word of the loss of your wife while in America, and now can only say how truly sorry I am. _

_You must be wondering how it is I am writing to you, why I am alive, and why I didn't tell you of this. Well the fact is that I was protecting you and your family. I knew that though the Professor was dead, he still had many men willing to follow his orders, and had it been discovered that I was alive, and that you knew of it, your life would have been worth nothing at all. _

_I waited until after you wrote the account of the case up for the Strand because there could be no greater proof then your words. You never could lie convincingly, old chap. _

_Now, old fellow, I still cannot come back. Not quite yet, but letters sent to this address will reach me. I may have some small tasks for you to do. With your help we will bring down the last of Moriarty's gang for good. _

_One last thing. Do not tell anyone of my survival. You cannot know who may be listening. _

_I remain affectionately _

_SH_

The letter, written in the hand of a ghost, had the effect to send me into a whirlwind of emotions which I could not try to indentify. I was very glad that no one was in the house, for they would have thought me gone mad, as I was laughing wildly, and tears filled my eyes.

I finally brought my raging feelings under a semblance of control, still shaking in my chair, and wiping the tears from my face. He was alive! It was unbelievable, yet how could I mistake it?

The intensity of my joy made me shoot up from my chair, and pull open the shuttered windows to let in the last glow of the sunset. I laughed out loud, for it was the first time in almost three years that I had cared to look at it. I trembled with excitement, pacing the room, before flinging myself into the desk chair and scribbling frantically until the wee hours of the morning. Only then could my exhaustion overcome my exhilaration, and I slept, full of happy dreams.

The next morning I could barely keep my thoughts on my patients, and I could not keep the smile off my face. My housekeeper noticed the change, and kept glancing at me in puzzlement, and slight worry. I told no one my joyous news, but I fear my countenance hid little.

I finished the entirety of my dinner, for the first time in ages, and then tore a sheet of paper from my journal in order to pen a reply to Holmes' letter. I had barely written the header when Inspector Lestrade walked in. I quickly covered the letter, and leaped to my feet.

"Good day to you, sir!" I cried, while circling around the desk to shake his hand. He looked at me in confusion, bordering on alarm, and I realized I was doing a dismal job of hiding the happy news I bore. I struggled to reign myself in. "How are you?"

"Tolerably, Doctor." He said, "And you are…well?"

I kept the wide grin off my face by pure determination.

"Well enough," I said, and led him over to the chair, pouring him a drink from the sideboard. "What brings you here today, Lestrade?" I asked. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I feel I should apologize for my callousness yesterday. I had no desire to cause offense."

"Not at all!" I exclaimed. "I fear I have been a most challenging companion of late. It is I who should apologize." He mumbled something to the effect of my not mentioning it, and we continued on to have a pleasant chat while we drank our drinks.

He had not, however, missed how my eyes had flickered occasionally to my desk, and the letter that lay hidden there. He rose to leave, most likely thinking I had some pressing work, and I did little to dissuade him. I bid him a good day, and rushed to the desk to continue my letter.

_My dear Holmes, _

_You cannot imagine the joy that writing those words beings to me! I can hardly believe that I am writing them myself. To think that you are alive, after three years…what a marvel! How did you survive the Falls? Did you perhaps manage to climb out?_

I was struck at these words that while I had been collapsed with grief against a rock at the top of those dreadful Falls, he may have been struggling beneath me, calling out for my help, and I in my sorrow hadn't heard him over the water. I was filled with horror at the thought.

_My dear sir, you must tell me what happened! _

_In any case, I am overcome with gladness at your return, and await the day when I will see you sit in the armchair across from, just as we always did. I will scribble away at what you call my romantic drivel, and you will scrape on your violin as we await our next case. What a thought! And one I never imagined would again be reality. _

_I am completely staggered! I do hope this message finds you in health, and that whatever business that is keeping you away from London will soon be wrapped up. For my part, I would be glad to accomplish whatever tasks you desire of me. You shall cringe at the romance of this statement, but I would be glad to fight the forces of evil at your side once more, my old friend. _

_Allow me to wish you health, and luck, and my I say again the great joy I feel at your survival!_

_Yours to command_

_John H. Watson_

I took a moment to laugh aloud at the sheer happiness in my heart. What a different picture from the track my life had been headed. My future before had been one that I now shudder to think of. Now, everything would be the way it was meant to be.

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Here is the next installment! Let me know what you think!


	4. We Are All Searching

A/N: Here you are! An extra long one in apology for the delay. RL got pretty busy there for a while :) Alfie belongs to KCS, and she's kindly let me borrow him. He popped up in my story, surprising me immensily, but what can you do? :) Hope you enjoy this!

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"In a world where we are all searching for the right answers, often without results, have you ever given thought to what the right questions are?"

Steven Clarke

**Chapter 3**

I did not hear from Holmes for two days after that, Saturday morning to be exact, and I admit that in that time much of my joy turned to hurt, and not a little anger at my being so deceived. It rankled that I had not been considered trustworthy enough be told of his survival. The only reason he had given was that I was to have written a convincing account of my friends death, in order to fool his enemies, I supposed.

I sighed, and took a seat for breakfast. In light of my behavior in the days after my discovery, I had to admit that Holmes was correct. He had not been exaggerating when he said that I could not lie. My acting skills left much to be desired. I was sure that my housekeeper at least, thought my senses had fled.

I spread marmalade on my toast, lost in my thoughts. I was in the act of raising it to my mouth when my housekeeper, Mrs. Goodbody bustled in. I dropped my toast directly on my trousers, and nearly spilled my tea, which had her fluttering around, clucking at me. I finally managed to convince her that no, marmalade stains were by no means a fatal affliction, and that she should hand me the letter which she held in her hand.

She passed it to me, and my heart leapt again to see the familiar writing upon the front. She then sniffed, and turned to go. I occupied myself with dabbing at the spot on my leg until she had left the room. Then I sprang up, and rushed to my desk, slitting open the envelope as I went.

A thin note fell onto the surface, and I snatched it up to read this.

_Watson, _

_Find out all you can about a Perry W. Northop. I recommend starting at the government headquarters. _

_I have come a bit closer to home, so letters should be sent to this address_

And he listed an address in France, just across the Chanel.

_Forgive the brusqueness of this missive, but I must get this to you in all possible speed. _

_Sherlock Holmes_

It took a moment for it to sink in, as short as it was. I had an assignment, but whatever thoughts I had about adventures, and spying must come at a later date, when the man himself was again by my side. I was simply an information gatherer. I reread the note, feeling a thrill of pleasure that he was a little closer in geography than previous. It made no difference in the world really, but it made me feel just a little nearer.

Well, if an informant I was, then I had better get started. I gathered an empty notebook, and a pencil stub, and set out for Whitehall, the street where most of our countries governing bodies met and ruled.

I did declare Whitehall to be my destination, but after some inquiries about the gentleman, I found myself on Downing Street, before the four large buildings of the foreign office. That the man dealt with our international affairs, and had drawn the attention of Holmes and his unknown client, caused me no little concern. When Holmes was interested in something, it often pointed towards a crime, and that did not bode well for our beloved England.

I entered the main building, and spoke to the secretary.

"Is there a Mr. Perry W. Northop here?"

The man behind the desk sniffed at my question.

"He is otherwise engaged." I was told, and brushed out of the door. I stood, gaping a little at the manner in which I had been dealt with. The nerve!

I grumbled some under my breath, as I took out my notebook and scribbled a few notes on the location at which I had found him, and the job he appears to have.

I then pulled out my watch, and checked the time. Just past 10 o'clock. I had ample time to attempt to find some information on the man in first Holmes' catalogue, and barring that, the National Museum.

I went first towards Baker Street, and telling the cabman to wait, I bounded up the seventeen steps to the sitting room, scaring Mrs. Hudson dreadfully in the process. Her scolding followed me into the room, not nearly as cluttered now as it had been previous, as I attempted to find the Northop gentleman.

I pulled the N volume down, and then the P for good measure, and began my search. I found North, Northumberland, and Norbury but no Northop. Under P was only old Perry "Longshanks" MacBride, a cattle rancher from America turned treasure hunter, and thief. But, as fascinating as Longshanks' case had been, it was no help to me now. On to the museum!

A short time later, I was walking under the impressive colonnades into the interior, passing under the bust of the late Mr. Panizzi, the Founder of the Museum, and entering the great, domed Reading Room. I then went searching throughout the shelves of blue backed folios for the letter P, under which I would find the Periodicals, and in those volumes, with luck, I would find our elusive Mr. Northop.

I will not bore you with the tedium of the hours I spent searching the files. Needless to say, they were full of frustration, boredom, twinged shoulder muscles, and neck cricks. However, in the end, I did come out with a few small prizes.

Our man was a translator, and transcriber to the governmental heads. He was often given documents of the highest value to copy out to the correct person. He had a very high standing in the offices of state, and had been in employment there for twenty-four years. He was married, with two daughters, one of whom, a Miss Lydia, had just gotten married to Mr. William Farley two months ago. He lived in Marylebone and had recently sent out an advertisement for a housekeeper. Such was the reward of hours of going blind staring at dusty news clippings.

Armed with this new knowledge, I headed back to Downing Street. It was nearing five o'clock, and I hoped to catch Mr. Northop coming out of the building.

I was terribly lucky there had been a photo in the paper clipping, for otherwise I should have had no way to recognize him. As it was, I nearly missed him, lounging as I was across the street. He came out, and got straight into a cab, I had to quickly jump into another to keep up with him. I ordered the cabbie to Marylebone, but told him to follow after Mr. Northop's cab.

"Here now gov', I don't hold with followin' a body nowhere. T'isn't right, see?" He relented once I, in frustration, for the cab was heading out of sight, waved an extra shilling in front of his eyes. After a few bumps, the cabbie got me there in very good time.

I tossed up his money a few houses down from the first cab's stop. Mr. Northop was stepping down. I watched from across the street as he entered his house, and was greeted by a woman in the front entry, before the door swung shut.

I took note of the address, and that the man's wife had red hair, before closing my notebook, and climbing back into the cab. It would be a short letter to Holmes if this were all the information I could gather. I couldn't help feeling disappointed in myself, but there was nothing to be done. I could not think what other way of learning about him I had not already employed. Except…

Stepping out of the cab on Baker Street, I whistled sharply. Up ran a scraggly, tousle headed little boy, who was quite a bit taller than I remembered. Alfie Webber grinned up at me from under his ginger bangs.

"Wot's it, Doctor?" He said.

"Hullo there Alfie." I said, smiling. "How is your grandmother?"

"Still can't keep me under lock and key." He grinned. "Have ya got a job fer me?" I went down to one knee in front of the lad. Though he had grown, he still didn't come taller than my waist.

"I'd like you boys to watch a house for me." I said. He positively beamed.

"Oi can do that!" He was bouncing with excitement, and I thought with a little sadness how most likely the boys of the little Irregulars had mourned when Holmes was thought dead. I flushed with shame in that I hadn't thought of them at the time. Then I smiled at their enthusiasm. I hoped they'd never change.

"Alfie, get the Irregulars together. This will be an all night job." I help up a sovereign, and his eyes grew wide.

"Right'o, gov!" I gave him the coin, and the address, and he took off running to gather his fellows.

I headed inside to compose my letter of report. I hoped there was more to write tomorrow when the boys gave their account of the night's happenings, but for now, I wrote the information down as I had it. It remained to be seen what else I would have to do on Holmes' orders, but in this, I had at least, done my best.

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A/N: Hope you liked this one! I will have the next one up very soon. Cheers! Ari


	5. The Origin of Myths

**A/N: Why hello again! It has been a while for this...I blame my professors. :) Here is my next offering. Things are starting to pick up, and I hope it hasn't been too boring thus far. Thank you for all the lovely reviews! I've tried to respond to each, but if I missed one, let me say Thank You! publically. You've all been great! **

**Well this story keeps extending while I'm writing, so it's probably going to be quite long. I hope you'll stick with it, even with my sporadic updating :)**

**Sill don't own Holmes or Watson, and Alfie belongs to KCS, but I do own Pip! :) Yay! **

**Enjoy chapter 4!**

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If a man is offered a fact which goes against his instincts, he will scrutinize it closely, and unless the evidence is overwhelming, he will refuse to believe it. If, on the other hand, he is offered something which affords a reason for acting in accordance to his instincts, he will accept it even on the slightest evidence. The origin of myths is explained in this way.

Bertrand Russell (1872 - 1970)

**Chapter 4**

It wasn't until Monday that I heard back from either Holmes, or young Alfie. I spent Sunday in a state of nervous energy, wandering around my home, pacing, much as I recalled Holmes doing on occasion. Finally, Monday dawned.

As I stepped outside my home to make my way towards my practice, I was set upon by two small boys. Alfie, and another child I did not recognize, beamed up at me.

"Mornin' gov!" Alfie chirped.

"Good morning Alfie," I said, "Who is your friend?"

"This here's my chum Pip." Pip grinned at me, showing a gap where a front tooth had yet to grow, and tipped his cap. "His mum's wot calls 'im Philip, but 'e loikes Pip better, doncha Pip?" The lad in question nodded emphatically, and Alfie grinned back at him, then leaned in confidentially towards me. "He's a mute, so I lets him tag along wit me, so I can translate like fer 'im." Alfie squawked then as the young Pip kicked him in the shin, glaring at him.

I laughed. "It doesn't look like he needs any help getting his point across." Alfie looked mournfully at me from where he was bent over, rubbing his bruised leg.

"Yer taking 'is side, Doctor?" Pip broke into silent laughter, and after a moment Alfie could not help but to join in.

I laughed again. It did feel good to laugh!

"Boys, boys." I attempted to calm them down. "Did you watch the house I told you about?" Alfie snapped to attention, pulling a jaunty sailor's salute.

"Sure did, Doctor. Me and Wiggins took shifts all night, but we didn't see nothin' suspicious till the next morning." He paused, and a look of uncertainty came over his face.

"What was it Alfie?" I asked, leaning down.

"It was Pip who spotted him, round eight o'clock it was," He said, turning his cap in his hands. "It was jus' another bloke, lounging about like, but there was something funny bout 'im. I don't know what."

I sigh, and patted the boys on the shoulders.

"You did very well, lads." I pulled out a few shillings each for them. "Thank you,"

Alfie took the money, stealing it away in one of his hidden pockets, and looked up at me earnestly.

"Whacha want to know for, Doctor? You on a case?"

"Something like that," I said, and patted him on the head. They both turned to scamper off, then Alfie turned back to me.

"I sure do miss helping out Mr. Holmes on 'is cases." He said sadly. I felt a pang. Hold out for a short time longer lad, all would be as it should be.

"As do I," I replied, patting him on the head. He gave me a quick smile, then they both turned and disappeared down an alleyway.

I stood for a moment, fingering the single shilling I had retained. It was enough to get me to my practice, but I decided to walk. I set off down the crowded street, pondering what Alfie had told me.

The house was quiet, but the man who stood outside was watching him in addition to the boys I had employed. Then it was certain that this man was mixed up in something bad. I hope more news would come from Holmes. I'd like to know what I was intended to do next.

I arrived at my practice to an envelope on my desk. The postmark was from France.

_My Dear Watson,_

_I am somewhat at my leisure at the moment, so I will take the time to answer some of your questions as to my survival._

_As a matter of fact, I did climb out. During the fight with Moriarty, he fell to what would be his ultimate death. As he fell, he grabbed hold of my coat, pulling me with him. We hit the side of the chasm just under the ledge, and there his hold was loosened. He fell, and I landed on a narrow shelf, hitting my head, which knocked me unconscious. I lay there for some hours, until it was dark. Then I woke, and climbed out._

_It was only then that I realized that everyone in the world thought me dead. I had the ultimate chance to catch the rest of Moriarty's gang, not to mention others of the worst criminal sort, for in my "death" they would grow lazy. So, beating down my first instinct, which was to find you, I fled south. I eventually ended up in Chicago, before returning now to finish off the last of the Professors hold on England._

_I hope that satisfies your curiosity, old boy. Now on to business._

_Your next task is to befriend a man. His name is the Honorable Ronald Adair, the son of the Earl of Maynooth, governor of Australia. He resides with his mother and sister at 427 Park Lane, but where you will find him most often is at one of his three card clubs: the Baldwin, the Cavendish and the Bagatelle. Find him in the Bagatelle on Tuesday night, and engage him in a game. They play high stakes, so enclosed are a few pounds to use at your discretion. Use your skills at affability, and befriend the man. That is all I need at present._

_Do let me know what you found out about Northop._

_SH_

I tipped up the envelope to allow the folded up wad of notes to slide into my hand. I flipped through the stack. Good heavens! One hundred pounds? I quickly slipped the money and letter back inside the envelope. Come tomorrow night I would be playing cards with the Ronald Adair

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**A/N: Hope that didn't dissappoint! Please R&R, it makes me write faster!**

**P.S. If you noticed certain discrepancies regarding Holmes' account, and canon, hold that thought! **

**Cheers!**

**TBC**


	6. All Pretending

**A/N: Here is my next chapter! Ta da! Haha, hope you like it :) Vi, this is for you!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, at all. **

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"We are all pretending. The important thing is to maintain a straight face."

Maurice Valency

**Chapter 5**

The next evening found me ascending the stairs to the Bagatelle Card Club, the hundred pounds folded carefully inside my wallet. I was dressed as fashionably as I could manage, but I feared my nervousness would take away any credulity to my disguise.

I was attending tonight as Dr. W. Johnson, which I thought was rather clever. I entered the smoky room, pausing for a moment in the doorway. It was a dimly lit, low ceilinged, fashionable room, with various card and billiard tables situated around the floor. The men scattered around were societies highest, with sleek suits, and gleaming cuffs. I can perhaps be forgiven of my next actions in light of the intimidation I felt in their presence.

A very large man walked past me rather closely, brushing my shoulder, and in an effort to leave room for his bulk, I stepped backwards into what was, to my alarm, thin air. I felt that sickening jerk that comes from stepping down into nothingness, and found myself tumbling into someone's arms. I realized at once that I had forgotten about the step downwards that led into the room. My face burning in mortification, I extricated myself from the man's hold.

"I beg your pardon, sir!" I said to the red-haired young man. He smiled politely, though his eyes were twinkling in merriment.

"Why not at all, sir. Think nothing of it!" He held out his hand, and I returned the shake, still embarrassed. "My name is Ronald Adair,"

I started. This was the man I was to befriend?

"I'm Dr. J— err...Will Johnson." I stammered, then shook myself. Concentrate! "I thank you sir, you have saved me a fall at least!"

He laughed. "I was glad to, I assure you." He then looked at me curiously. "I say, you wouldn't happen to play?" He glanced over at the card tables. "My table is in dire need of a fourth."

I smiled. Of all the luck. "I would be glad to, Mr. Adair."

"Oh, please, call me Ronald. Or Ron. There is only so much formality one can stand in this place."

Ronald Adair was handsome in a slightly gangly way, with freckles covering his nose, and a shock of ginger hair that curled over his forehead. This, and his slight accent, had me thinking that he had grown up in Australia.. He was polite, if lacking in a certain social grace, though he made up for it in affability. All in all, a pleasant young man.

We weaved through the maze of card players before taking our seats. He picked up the card deck, made his introductions.

"Gentlemen, this is Dr. William Johnson. Doctor, this is Mr. Jesse Bloxham, and Lieutenant Oscar Harrell."

There was a chorus of how do you dos, and we sat down around the square table, I opposite Mr. Adair, or Ron, as he liked to be called, as his partner. We drew cards, with Ron Adair receiving the lowest. He then shuffled the deck, and began to deal.

"So, a Doctor are you?" Said Lt. Harrell, to my right.

"Err, yes." I said, while I peered at the dismal hand I had been given.

"Where do you work?" The other asked, Mr. Bloxham. I turned my attention to my two interrogators, feeling slightly rankled.

"I'm out of work at the moment." I said, then finished with a safer topic. "I was an army surgeon." That, at least, was the truth.

"Really?" said Ron, and I began to tell of my career in the service. It was a safe enough topic, and served to fill our conversation for a good while. During that time, I played a fair game, but I was very glad of the hundred pounds I had been given, for if it were my own money, I'm not sure I would have had a practice come morning.

We had been playing for an hour or two, and Ronald and I were losing. I was, however, thoroughly enjoying myself. Ronald Adair was a delightful young man, one with whom I could see myself cultivating a genuine friendship. I nearly forgot I was on Holmes' orders.

It was then that a change came over Ronald. His face, before so openly friendly, stilled, and his eyes narrowed. Our playfellows hadn't noticed, but I glanced backwards in the direction he was staring. Coming towards us was a tall, muscular man with a bristling mustache, and a long scar down the side of his face.

The icy silence from our red-haired companion was enough even to make Harrell, and Bloxham look up from their cards, as the tall man arrived at our table.

"Mr. Adair, what a pleasure to see you here this evening." The tall man said, and Ronald bristled.

"Colonel Moran." He nodded rigidly. Colonel Moran glanced at the rest of us around the table, and it seemed to me that his eyes rested on me a moment longer than they had one the others. Unaccountably I felt an uneasiness within me, stemming from his cold brown eyes.

"Might I have the honour of engaging you in a game of whist next Friday, the thirtieth, if it's convenient for you?" The Colonel asked Adair, and Ronald suddenly flushed, as if he was shamed in his attitude.

"Of course, Moran. I'll look forward to it." Adair said quickly, and slightly penitently, and I felt the undercurrent of tension lessen. Ronald gestured to us around the table, watching their proceedings curiously.

"Colonel, this is Lt. Harrell, Mr. Bloxham, and Dr. Johnson, gentlemen, Colonel Moran." I noticed that Moran was eyeing me strangely, but there was no impression that I could put my finger on, so I pushed it out of my mind. After our introductions, Moran left us to pursue another game, and we finished ours in relative peace.

Adair and I won, to my surprise, and we parted with an appointment to play tomorrow night. I was glad that finding and befriending the boy was proving no harder than simply being myself, and playing cards. He was easy to like, and he seemed to enjoy my company as well. I was glad to have something good to report to Holmes after the discouraging findings last time with the unremarkable Mr. Northop.

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**TBC, Please R&R? :)**


	7. As If Something Might Happen

A/N: *Edges slowly into sight* ...Hi, I'm so terribly sorry it's been so very long! Finals have eaten my brain, and in my free time, all I've wanted to do is draw. Fun too, but doesn't help me get this story finished! But the good news is that tomorrow is my last final, and then I will be on break! So look for more from me during that time. Good news for you, and bad for me is that while trying to write this last essay, I've been bombarded with plot-bunnies (who let those loose? *narrowed eyes*) so I've got some story ideas, unrelated to this, that may be up sometime in the future as well. Anyway, I'll stop talking, and let you read :) Enjoy! And please tell me what you think!

Also, to all my reviewers, a HUGE hug, and Thank You!! You're so great!

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"At noon in the desert a panting lizard/waited for history, its elbows tense/watching the curve of a particular road/as if something might happen." William Stafford

**Chapter 6**

The next morning I penned a short reply to Holmes, summarizing my time at the club, and including the information that I had obtained from Alfie. I ended with this note.

_The evening ended on a pleasant note, but there was one singular incidence that drew my attention. It's probably nothing, but I do remember your methods. The smallest detail, eh?_

_Adair had been very relaxed throughout the evening, but he went stiff as a poker when one man came up to our table. His name was Colonel Moran, and Adair had quite a reaction to seeing him. He sat up straight, and at first seemed very cold towards him. Adair introduced us, and at that point he seemed to be ashamed of his attitude, and accepted an invitation to play the following Friday. _

_Your thoughts on the matter would be greatly appreciated, my friend. I am_

_Yours faithfully_

_John Watson_

*~*

**A Telegram to Mr. Emile Sigerson, Paris, France.**

S **STOP** DOCTOR ACTING STRANGE **STOP** HAVE YOU TOLD HIM **STOP** MH **FINAL STOP**

*~*

A man in France read his newly delivered telegram with his brow furrowed, and thin face scrunched in confusion. He sat down slowly at his paper covered desk, rubbing a finger and thumb on his stubbled chin. His eyes were unfocussed in thought.

A moment later he rummaged through the desk's coating of documents, newspapers, and hand written notes, until finally with a cry of triumph, held up a pen. Then uncapping his inkbottle, he scribbled a reply.

*~*

_Watson,_

_Your next task is one of slight danger, but if you are careful, I have no reason to believe that you cannot accomplish it. The man I had you watch, Mr. Northop, is the target. He is, as you found out, a copyist for the most important and secret government documents. His position is ideal. He is being paid a substantial sum of money to make certain changes to a document that will tomorrow night come into his possession. He will do this, and then burn the original. The changes will mark catastrophe for our nation._

_Your task, as told to me by our government in dead secret is to copy this document, in secret. This will entail a bit of breaking and entering, as well as fast copying. That done, you will then deliver the paper to a Mr. Cummins. Then, when Mr. Northop attempts to bring forth the changed reproduction, he will be caught red-handed._

_Go at night, alone. The desk in which it is contained will be on the first floor, second door. The document will be in the locked front drawer. It will be marked with the seal of a tiger. Use my tools, and the skills I've taught you. You are in the trust of some of the most powerful men of the century. Remember that, and that this is of the utmost importance. Do not fail me._

_SH_

Thus the next evening, after bidding young Mr. Adair a good night, I made my way back to Baker Street. It was around eleven thirty, and already quite dark. I had inquired after Mrs. Hudson earlier in the day, and found her away, by all accounts, on a much-needed holiday in the country. This filled me with relief, as I would not have to explain my need for Holmes' old dark lantern, lock-picking kit, and a silk black mask. If I had, I probably should have spilled everything, for the knowledge that Holmes was alive, while all others still mourned around me, fair made me burst to tell. However, I had been admonished quite strongly, and I had no desire to put either Holmes, others or myself in more danger.

I gathered up the supplies from 221B, and then made my way back towards that old stone house at Marlborough Street.

I grew more and more nervous with each passing moment as the cab stuttered over the cobblestoned street. The lantern hidden under my coat was jabbing me in the side, and I could feel the lock-picks heavily in my pocket. When we arrived about a ten minutes walk from the house itself, I paid the cabman and was getting out, when my coat caught on the door handle. With a loud clatter, the dark lantern fell to the ground. The cabbie, who had abnormally bushy sideburns, I noticed, turned sharply to stare at me. I started quite guiltily, before stooping to gather it up, feeling the eyes of the man on the back of my neck. I waved him off, and he drove slowly away.

I stood on the sidewalk; feeling very exposed, and watched him drive around the corner. Then I waited five more minutes, before walking briskly up the street towards the home of Mr. Northop. I walked, hands in my pockets, trying to appear as if I were merely enjoying a pleasant stroll on a spring night. Once I reached the house, I slipped in the narrow side alley to put on my disguise, then with the mask safely covering my features, I slunk to the back door.

I was very glad that Holmes had made it a point for me to know the art of lock picking and escapology long ago, for my slightly shaky fingers soon found the bolts turning. I eased the door open, and stepped into the kitchen.

It was immaculate; the surfaces shined, and every item in a set place. I frowned, for it would make it doubly difficult to hide all signs of my presence. I knew if I so much as set my hand down on one of the polished tabletops, it would be known that someone had intruded. I checked my shoes carefully for mud or dirt that would make a track, and finding them clean, I began to sneak upstairs.

The desk was exactly where I had been told it was, and I was quite relieved to find this desk top to be considerably more cluttered. That would make things easier. I set down the dark lantern, unneeded after all. I could see quite clearly from the light of the lamps out the windows. That was a relief for I forgotten to light it outside, and there was a distinct odour when it was lit.

I crouched down in front of the thin drawer, that Holmes had indicated, and withdrew the smaller pick. After a moment, the drawer slid open, and I withdrew the top folder, the one with the seal of a leaping tiger. This was the one I was meant to copy.

Flipping it open I read the first words, pompous political words that were meant to conceal meaning, as all government documents seemed to be. Sighing, and preparing for a headache, I sat down at the desk, and making use of the man's own paper, and ink, I started scribbling down the words, my tension making the writing terse.

A half hour later, when my brain was swimming with _heretofores_ and _thereafters_, I finally reached the end. Crossing the final 't' with a flourish, I heaved a breath of relief. I then furtively, laid down the pen where it had been, closed up the drawer with the folder inside, and slipped my copy into the breast pocket of my black coat. That done, I left the way I came.

Once I was outside, the house securely locked behind me, I sagged, the tension of the last hour draining from my stiff limbs. I had done it! I ripped the silk mask from my face, leaving me free to breathe the cool night air. I patted my pocket, feeling the stiff paper folded there, and smiled in satisfaction. I then strolled up the quiet street towards Baker Street, whistling happily.

* * *

Oho, dear Watson. What are you getting yourself into?

TBC


	8. Corrode the Soul

"Deception is a cruel act... It often has many players on different stages that corrode the soul."

--Donna A. Favors

**Chapter 7**

My happiness had all but disappeared by the time I arrived at my home in Kensington, after stowing the burglarizing gear back at Baker Street. I was profoundly grateful that my own housekeeper did not live within my home, and that Mrs. Hudson was still out, as it meant that I was unobserved as I shakily put the things away, and went to bed. I was coming to realize the enormity of the crime that I had perpetuated. I had broken, and entered another's home, and copied an important government work at the word of a man whom only I knew was alive. If I had been caught, the blame would have rested entirely on me. I could not mention whose orders I was on, or why I was breaking the law without looking like a madman.

This knowledge shook me to the core, and I indulged in a glass of brandy before heading to my bed for a night I was sure would be filled with tossing and turning.

I woke rather later than was my norm, to a distant pounding on the front door, and the footsteps of Mrs. Goodbody answering it. It was only then that I glanced at my watch, and saw that I had less than twenty minutes to open my practice.

Bolting out of bed, I rushed through my ablutions, and hurried down stairs, only to freeze in the doorway of the drawing room.

There was Inspector Lestrade.

I remembered the door knocking I had woken to, this was my early morning guest, and I could only think of one reason why a policeman would be here at my house. I had been found out.

I felt my heart speed up, and I tried to dry my damp palms, before stepping forward.

"Inspector! Good morning," Inwardly, I winced. I said that entirely too boisterously.

"Good morning Doctor," Lestrade said amiably. "Are you alright? You went quite pale there for a moment."

"What?" I said rather distractedly. "Oh, no. Yes I'm fine." I said. He looked unconvinced, and led me over to the sofa, and we both took a seat. I flattened my hands against my thighs to keep from wringing them in nervousness. "How are you, Lestrade?"

"Oh fine, fine." He said, "I was hoping to catch you before you opened your practice. I was wondering if you'd have any objection to coming down the Yard with me?" My blood ran cold. It was true, I had been discovered. Someone had seen me, perhaps that cabman. I was aware that Lestrade was peering at me strangely. No doubt, my face had blanched.

"Whatever for, Lestrade?" I asked in a voice higher than normal. He frowned at me.

"Well, I was intending on asking you to look at the body in a case I'm working on, but now I am thinking I should just let you go straight back to bed. Are you quite sure you are not ill?"

His words sent a haze of relief through me. He just wanted my advice. That was all. I was not being arrested. I laughed a little and rubbed my forehead.

"No, no Inspector. I am completely well, I assure you."

His eyes glinted, I was sure he suspected something was up. My behaviour lately had been erratic at best and he wasn't nearly as dense as I made him out to be in the Strand.

"Well, if you're sure."

"I am. When shall I come down?"

"Around twelve o'clock, if it's convenient."

"All right then." I smiled as normally as I could, still reeling some from my near escape. "I will be there, Inspector."

He thanked me, and I let Mrs. Goodbody show him out. I was going to be very late to my practice but I picked up the stack of post from beside my breakfast plate anyway, only really interested in that distinctive handwriting. I had no interest in bills.

There was one small envelope addressed in Holmes' hand, and enclosed was only Mr. Cummin's card. Evidently, I was meant to send the copied document to this Mr. Cummins. I smiled a little. A single card to inform me of where I am to send a most important document was very Holmes, if nothing else was.

I took out the thin stack of foolscap that made up the government papers, folded it, and sealed it carefully into a large envelope. I would deliver it by hand later this afternoon.

I spent the rest of the morning attempting to salvage my professional relations with the patients who had been left sitting in my waiting room. Many of them, mostly the known hypochondriacs, were quite affronted that I had been twenty minutes late to open. Then again, I could not feel too bad, for there was nothing physically wrong with these people. They could survive my being a few minutes late.

Twelve noon chimed as I saw the last of the morning patients out the door. I was to have met Lestrade that very moment, but that last patient had been most persistent, and had refused to leave until I heard her entire life's story. My, I was acquiring quite the habit of tardiness of late.

I finally made it to the Yard a quarter after noon, and met Lestrade on the way to the mortuary.

"Good Afternoon, Doctor." He said, clasping my hand warmly. "I do hope you're feeling better?"

"Thank you for asking. I was not ill though. I'm fine"

He looked at me in the manner of slight disbelief, but willingness to let things be.

"I'm right glad to hear it. This case here is a tricky one." He led me over the shrouded body lying on the table. "The poor fellow was run down. He was a cab man, and according to witnesses, he was getting off his night shift this morning around six, when he was run over by a handsome cab while crossing the street right outside this very spot." At this, he pulled down the sheet that covered his face.

I confess I started badly, for the dead cab driver was none other than the curious cabbie of last night. His long sideburns were distinctive, and I could picture his piercing look when I dropped the dark lantern, clearly.

"Doctor?" Lestrade looked concerned again. Blast, I must learn to control my features!

"It's nothing," I smiled grimly. "He looks very much like an old friend of my father's, that's all." I lied, trying to make the connection as tenuous as possible. I didn't want a suspicious inspector sniffing around claimed friends, or relatives.

Lestrade seemed to accept that, thank goodness.

"So why bring me in, if it is a simple accident?" I asked, as I donned an apron.

"To tell you the truth, we're not sure if it was an accident. We have multiple witnesses –this is a busy road – and most say that it looked like a simple mishap. The driver of the cab was certainly apologetic enough. But we have at least two spectators who swear that the man ran him down apurpose."

"But why?"

"Who knows? All they could tell me was that the man was driving rather too fast, and that is appeared that he swerved into the walking cabman intentionally. But that is not enough to go on, not nearly."

"So, again, why call me in?"

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well, something just felt wrong, if you follow me? It didn't sit well in my mind at the time, but I only decided to ask you up here when I saw what were in the man's pockets."

With this, he pulled out a small sack, which he proceeded to dump upon the side table. There amongst the various coins, buttons, and other accoutrements of a cabman's pocket was one of Sherlock Holmes' shiny lock picks.

I hoped I managed to keep my face neutral as I picked it up.

"This is a rather strange thing for a cab driver to keep in his pocket, isn't it?" I said nervously.

"Indeed." Lestrade pulled a slip of paper from deep inside the bag. "This was also in his pocket." He handed it to me.

It was a torn piece of foolscap, with the address of Mr. Perry Northop scrawled upon it. I gulped. This was all getting rather close. He obviously had suspected me of burglary, and had followed me to the house to get the number, intending on going to the police after his shift. Since he had picked me up from Baker Street, he had a likely idea of where to tell the police to find me, not to mention my description! If he had not have been killed, I could very well be sitting in a gaol cell at this very moment.

I tried to surreptitiously wipe cold sweat from my face, --this near miss was doing nothing for my already strained nerves—but Lestrade's brows furrowed.

"What say you to a dinner at the pub, on me?" He asked, obviously troubled by my distress, though he did not (thankfully!) know the true cause of it. I prevaricated.

"I haven't finished this fellow up," For indeed, I had barely finished the preliminary examination.

"He'll keep for half an hour. What do you say?"

"Well," I was still hesitating, but at that moment biology took over, and my stomach gave an almighty rumble. I looked down, startled, before be both broke out laughing. "I suppose, I can't refuse."

I can't say I was not nervous. With half and hour's conversation with Inspector Lestrade, Holmes was bound to come up, as was the questionable murder of the cab driver. I was not entirely confident in my abilities to hide Holmes being alive or my law-breaking last night in a face-to-face tête-à-tête.

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A/N: Thanks for reading, please tell me what you think :) Also sorry I have been ignoring this for so long. Life happens.


	9. Drop A Question On Your Plate

A/N: Sorry it has been SOO long, and a big thanks to all those who have been so encouraging as I faced some writer's...sluggishness :) Hope you like this chapter!

In response to a reviewer commenting that Watson was pretty emotional in the last chapter, here is my reasoning. He has just broken the law _by himself_, and by that I mean, that if he gets caught, it is all on his own head. There is no Holmes that he can call upon to back him, and no army either. That would shake anyone. Also he doesn't like lying, and he doesn't feel he if very good at it, and compared to Holmes he isn't, but that doesn't mean his face is an open book to everyone and sundry. I feel that he is better at deception than he thinks. Remember, we are only seeing _his _point of view, and he _thinks_ he's being quite obvious, when it's not really that bad.

Sorry, I'll stop rambling now, enjoy!

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" There will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to muder and create, and time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate." T.S. Eliot

**Chapter 8**

Lestrade led us to one of the corner pub's more private tables –a fact I didn't fail to notice. Evidently, there would be more than just light chatter bestirring the air above our meal.

But at first, to my relief, it _was_ just light conversation. We gossiped about the lads at the Yard, and about my patients (excluding names, of course) and I found myself relaxing for the first time in a very long while.

It could not last, however, and after a particularly bracing drink from his glass, Lestrade leaned forward.

"So, Doctor, how have you been, truly?"

I took a sip of my own drink. A week ago, I probably would have answered in a murmur, and Lestrade would have left it at that, blaming my mourning for my reticence. Today, though, his senses were pricked by my deceptions.

"I am well enough," I was not going to give away either my friend or myself by an unguarded word. Lestrade seemed to sense my resolve, for he changed tacks.

"What did you make of the lock pick and address? It smacked of planned burglary, don't you think?"

I took a mouthful of mutton, and nodded my head. I can't give anything away if my mouth is full, now can I?

"What stumps me is why he had them on him at that time of day. It was morning! If you're gonna rob a place, it's gotta be at night, right?" He was warming up to the subject, and I let him chatter on, while continuing to chew. Deuces, this mutton was tough!

"Then again, maybe he did rob somewhere. If so, then where is the spoils, and why haven't we heard about it? No, if you ask me, there are too many questions about this death to put it down to a mere accident."

He took a decided bite of mutton, and I finally managed to swallow mine.

"I quite agree," I said, and I took another bite.

"I wonder what Holmes would have thought about it?" he said a moment later. I had pondered that as well. I actually had intended to write Holmes of the circumstances in idle curiosity, simply to see what he would make of it. But of course, I could not tell Lestrade that! I instead smiled benignly."He probably would have asked the same questions you are asking, and smoked a great deal of tobacco while doing it."

We both chuckled knowingly.

"And then he would have whipped up one of his disguises, and traipsed about the city, gathering clues." Lestrade said.

I grinned. "And then would present the conclusion, at the last possible moment, in the most dramatic way possible." I finished, and we both laughed. "That was the general way he'd go about it, wasn't it?"

"That it was." Lestrade said. "He was a good man."

Is, my mind supplied, but I pushed the thought down, and raised my glass.

"To Holmes?"

"To Holmes."

We toasted my dear friend, who would have either laughed and ridiculed us upon witnessing the spectacle, or would have blushed and escaped at the first opportunity.

Our meal went on comfortably after that, but I could tell that Lestrade wasn't done with questioning my newfound health and happiness. Though so much had happened since the time I was but a grey shade of my former self with my mourning, for Lestrade it was only a week or so since my countenance had taken such a remarkable turn. It was only a matter of time before he commented on it.

True to form, Lestrade prevaricated for another ten minutes before asking me again if there was something I would like to tell him.

"Not that I can think of Lestrade." I said mildly, "Why would you think so?"

"There is _something_, Doctor. I haven't worked with Sherlock Holmes all these years and not learned something about telling when a man is hiding something, no more than you." It was all coming out now. "What happened a week ago to bring you out of that terrible depression?"

I admit, I came very close to at the very least _hinting_ that it had to do with Holmes. It was tempting to have a confidant in this business of secrecy. But no, I had been instructed to tell no one; Lestrade was included.

I shrugged at Lestrade's question.

"One cannot stay in mourning forever." I said softly, and he looked down at his plate.

*~*~*~

Lestrade's embarrassment kept him from asking many more questions, and we arrived back at the Yard full of lunch, and lingering awkwardness, on my part because of the many secrets I was carrying, and Lestrade because of a fear of prying too deep. In any case, we spoke of lighter topics as I readied the cabman's body for the examination.

After the autopsy, and resulting paper work, on which I wrote the cause of death (trauma from the collision) I took my leave of Scotland Yard, with some relief. It is an odd thing to spend the day in the heart of our city's law enforcement agency, when the night before one was engaged in the criminal.

I then headed outside, called a cab. Pulling Mr. Cummins card from my coat pocket, I called out to the cabman, and we set off. I had the envelope of government papers secreted away inside my inner pocket; I did not dare leave them home. They had already cost me my peace of mind, I did not want them to be lost, or stolen and necessitate me going back for them again.

We pulled up outside Mr. Cummins fashionable address, and I descended from the hansom, paid the cabbie, and pulled the bell. The door was opened by a stiff-necked butler, who peered at me through a polished monocle.

"Good day, sir." He monotoned, "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to speak with Mr. Cummins. I have a delivery." His eyebrows raised in a knowing manner.

"Of course, sir." He showed me into a lavish sitting room, and told me to wait for his master to come down.

Said master waddled into the room a while later. I may perhaps be forgiven of my rude gawping, for I did not think I had ever seen a man that literally was as wide as he was tall. His bulk filled the doorway, as he came in, and while I have described Mycroft Holmes as a large man, this term did no credit to Mr. Cummins. Unfortunately, while Mycroft had an imposing presence, to which his size added credulity, Mr. Cummins was simply round and plump.

He ponderously took a seat, and gestured to me to do the same. I sat uncomfortably on a brocade sofa.

"Dr. John Watson, sir," Announced the butler in a flat voice.

Mr. Cummins had been taking a pinch of snuff as his man spoke, at my name he dropped it with a start, sending the flakes floating down to settle on the green carpet. His large face turned to me.

"So you are Dr. Watson, are you?" He said. "I thought you would be shorter." He sniffed. I sighed slightly. Simply because I so often described my companion as tall and thin, did not mean that I was the opposite, as so many assumed.

"Yes, Mr. Cummins." I said, decided to get to business. "I was told to bring you an envelope with delicate contents."

He smiled widely, and disturbingly I was reminded of an African Hippopotamus.

"Of course! Of course! Mr. Holmes told me to expect you." He clapped his corpulent hands. "You have it with you?"

I slowly pulled the envelope out of my jacket pocket. He reached out for it, and I stood to give it to him, feeling a tug of uneasiness as he fingered the seal, and then rifled through the contents.

"Well, all seems in order." He finally said. "Thank you, your work is much appreciated."

With that, I was dismissed, shown out the door, and left standing in the street in perplexity

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TBC :D Press that little button down there...no, a little over...just....there! Perfect! :D


	10. Risk His Body

A/N: Hello All! First of all I want to thank everyone who is taking the time to leave such LOVELY reviews! They really make my day, sometimes even a literal happy dance... haha! Secondly, sorry this story is taking so long, I'm trying to keep writing it,while being accosted by other plot bunnies, runaway muses, homework, and a computer that is acting up :( so, forgive my lack of updates. The story IS starting to pick up, beginning with Watson is a rather delicate situation... *grins*

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"No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his well-being, to risk his body, to risk his life, in a great cause."  
**Theodore Roosevelt **

**Chapter 9**

**A Telegram to Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Diogenes Club, Pall Mall, London, England. **

M STOP HAVE NOT TOLD STOP LOOK INTO IT STOP S FINAL STOP

*~*~*~*

I blamed myself entirely for this. I had said any task, if it would help Holmes efforts. I had not thought that it would something of _this paticular _nature. I hoped I would walk away from this with my dignity still intact.

I was currently peering around the corner of a disreputable shop in the East end, at a seedy looking public house called Madame Böhman's. I recalled Holmes instructions with a surge of irritation, mixed with embarrassment.

_Pretend to be a customer in want of a lady, particularly an Isabel Vertiz. She resides there, and takes her clients into her room. Go in, and get the layout. You are looking for a jewellery box with a small lock. The jewel in question hangs around her neck when she is not asleep. _

Holmes' client, a wealthy lady in France, had had this ruby necklace stolen from her some weeks back. Holmes, through his contacts, had traced the necklace to throat of the prostitute in this very house. All that was needed was for someone to obtain it for him.

It apparently was stolen by some fragments of Moriarty's gang, and entrusted to this woman's safe keeping. They intend to sell it (for it is very valuable)in an attempt to rebuild some of the criminal empire, my friend had torn down. I was to stop this, by stealing back the jewel tonight.

_Return later in the night, around three or four. She should be alone and asleep. The ruby will be in the box, take it, and leave. One of my other contacts will be waiting for you under the sign of the house at 4:15 am. You will know him by his missing right eye. Give the box to him. _

_SH _

Grimacing, I straightened my coat, and headed into the building. Inside was ill lit, and smelled of alcohol and exotic perfume. I looking around to get the layout, trying to avoid seeing the women painted and scantily clad. They clustered around the many men within, and looked towards me as a newcomer, trying to catch my eye with blatant gestures. I frowned and headed towards the counter.

Behind it was who I assumed was Madame Böhem herself. She was a large women, her face nut brown, and her frizzled hair tied in a gypsies scarf. She glanced at me disinterestedly, as she rubbed a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag.

"What can I do for you, honey?" She asked in a gravelly voice. I cleared my throat.

"Yes, I wish to see Isabel Vertiz." I was speaking quietly to avoid drawing attention to myself, but the women behind the counter had no compunctions.

"Isabel is a very busy woman," She said loudly with a leer, and the people closest to us turned, looking at me curiously. My face flushed slightly.

"I am prepared to pay well." I murmured, my voice lower than ever, my eyes on the rag the Madame was still using, rubbing grime into the chinks of the glass. I made a mental note to partake of nothing from this establishment.

"You sure you don' want one of the other ladies? They come cheaper?" She waved her hand towards the girls scattered about the room, some of them already entangled with their clients.

"No, it must be Miss Vertiz." I said firmly.

"_Miss_ Vertiz, is it?" Her voice was still abominably loud, and we now had a crowd of listeners. "The boy's got hisself a case of puppy-love methinks!" She proclaimed, to the general amusement. The colour went higher on my cheek.

She enjoyed my embarrassment for a moment longer, and then, finally put down the glass, and picked up a candlestick.

"Alright, young pup." Madame Böhem said, "I'll take you to your lady love."

She giggled all the way up the stairs, a horrid, choking noise, leading me to Isabel Vertiz's room.

We came to a door, painted a vivid red, and the Madame knocked.

"A gentleman to see you, dear." She called through, and then opened the door on some unheard signal. She then turned to me, and pushed me inside, slamming the door behind me.

The room was low-lit, and warm, smelling of eastern spices, and flowers. I took in the exotic furnishings with a glance, before my eyes came to rest on Miss Isabel Vertiz herself. She was exceedingly pretty, with dark hair piled on her head, and large blue eyes. Her satin black dress left little to the imagination, but mostly served to show off her unhealthy thinness, and pallor. As a doctor, I was positive she was quite ill, probably consumption, or some other degenerative disease. I felt a pang of pity for her.

She rose from her reclined position, and I saw the ruby necklace, my goal, flash around her swan-like neck, like a drop of blood.

"Do you like what you see?" She asked, smiling at me softly. I laughed nervously.

"How could I not?" I said, and again recalled my story. At least I did not have to pretend my nervousness. "I am afraid I'm rather new at this." I shrugged helplessly, and her eyes danced in amusement.

"Never! A handsome man like you? No, I refuse to believe it." During her speech she had been moving ever closer to me, by the time she had finished talking, her hands were pressed flat against my chest. "Whatever could keep you respectable for so long?" She murmured, and brushed her fingers across my moustache. I did not miss the minute tremors in them. I took a step backwards, raising a hand, and smiling awkwardly.

"My wife, she doesn't..." I trailed off, cursing my poor acting skills. I hoped that my chosen role as a newly cheating husband would feel enough innate discomfort, that my own embarrassment would be unnoticed. Luckily, she seemed to understand.

"I see. You poor thing." She simpered.

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. She crossed to the side table, and raised up the lip of a small jar, quirking an eyebrow at me. I understood her meaning, and lifted out a fair amount of money. I wasn't sure what the rate was, but judging by her delighted grin, I had gone above and beyond.

I handed it to her, and while her back was turned, I looked about the room. There was a good-sized window on the back wall, with a portcullis hung with roses arching over it. If it reached towards the ground, it would make sneaking in and out much easier. The massive four-poster was on the left wall, hung with curtains of a deep red. The jewellery box was on the vanity table near the bed. That was my aim.

I was then startled by her slender arms reaching around my waist, and her lips trailing down my neck. I stiffened, wishing Holmes a thousand curses for this.

"Oh, now. None of that." She whispered, moved her arms to massage my shoulders. I twisted away, doing my best to appear guilt-stricken, instead of acutely discomfited.

"I'm sorry. I...I don't think I can do this." I backed away, and opened the door. I saw her eyes flash disappointment, but I only felt relief at my escape. "Keep the money," I said in parting, willing her to use it to see a doctor. Then dodging the glances from the other customers, I fled to the street outside.

* * *

TBC


	11. No One Mourns

A/N: Gah, it took me forever to find a quote that would work! ...Anyway, hope you enjoy this next installment :) Things are picking up *dramatic music*

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"No one mourns the wicked." Wicked the Musical

Chapter 10

My return to Madame Böhem's Public House was rather less noticeable that my first visit. The building was completely dark, as I sneaked around the side. I was dressed all in black, and I was alone on the street at that time of night—or rather, morning. It was about 3:15, and the street was deserted save for a snoring drunkard lying on the sidewalk next door, under a pile of rags. I presumed he would not be bothering me. I had one hour before I was to meet my contact.

Creeping around the backside of the building, I looked up to the room of Miss Isabel Vertiz. Earlier in the evening, I had scouted out the easiest way in (and caused myself no little embarrassment) so it was without hesitation that I made my way across the yard to the portcullis that led to the lady's window.

I utilized the criss-crossing boards, getting much torn and scratched in the process. There were young roses climbing the latticework, and they did not appreciate my attempts to clamber around them. There was a near scare about three quarters of the way up, when one of the horizontal boards broke free in my hand. I almost fell, before I quickly grabbed the lower framework, my left arm extending with a jerk, and wrenching my bad shoulder terribly.

I stifled a groan, breathing heavily, and stopped to rest a moment. I finally scaled the rest, reaching the top. I had to balance there a moment while I picked the lock on the window as quietly as I could. I was highly aware of the sleeping woman on the opposite side of the glass.

Finally, the lock clicked, and I eased it open, moving aside the sheer curtains with a sigh of relief. Now I simply had to grab the box with the jewelled necklace within it.

I swung my legs over the window frame and was about to come fully into the room when I felt an arm snake around my shoulders, and cold metal touch my throat. I froze.

"I've told you before Harry. You won't get nothing without the fee, so you can stop sneaking around here!"

The feminine voice of Miss Vertiz sounded in my ear, low with menace. I made some noise of protest, and I heard a checked gasp of surprise.

"Oh! You're not Harry!" She released my shoulders, though the blade was still against my neck. A light flared on, and I flinched away, but not before she had recognized me. "You're that nice man from earlier!" She proclaimed, and I nodded. She whipped the knife back into the small sheath fastened to her forearm. It barely showed under the sleeve of her nightgown, and I saw now why Moriarty's gang had felt safe in entrusting the necklace to her.

I rubbed the spot on my neck where the blade had pressed, and sat back onto the windowsill. Her manner changed from astonished, to coy in a matter of seconds.

"You change your mind, darling?" She smiled. My mind began racing. How was I going to get out of this one?

"Actually, no." I smiled weakly at her. What could I say? I saw her eyebrow rise in confusion.

"Then why, if you don't mind my asking, are you sneaking into my room in the middle of the night?" She sounded pleasantly curious, but I saw her finger her knife.

"I had wondered if we might...err, talk?" My eyes flickered to the table top whereon rested the engraved jewellery box that I was to steal.

"Talk?" She repeated blankly. Then she seemed to come to a decision, and shrugged. "You did pay me rather well, and I pride myself on giving a man what he desires." She quirked the side of her mouth at me, and moved back to the bed where she put on a red silk dressing gown. "Where would you like to ...talk?" She gestured around the room.

I came forward slowly, and took one of the table chairs, pulling it out for her to sit. She seemed shocked for a moment, fingering her loose hair, and then sat gingerly. I took my own seat in a chair opposite.

"You are quite the gentleman." She murmured, and wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her with a shiver. I rose, and shut the window firmly, though I left it unlocked, and resumed my seat.

She smiled and leaned towards me. "Now, where to begin?" She looked at me expectantly, and I furrowed my brow. I was going off the top of my head now, and I truly had no idea of what to do next.

"Um...How are you?" She leaned back, laughing in surprise and amusement.

"I am fine. And you?" I half smiled.

"I am somewhat...embarrassed." I said, telling the absolute truth for the first time.

"Oh, now we can't have that!" She exclaimed. "What can I do to make you comfortable? Some men are partial to massage," She rose, and moved around behind be. I stopped her with a soft grip on her wrist.

"No, that's quite alright." I said, and sat her back down. She cocked her head.

"You do perplex me, sir."

"I'm sorry for that."

"Why are you here?" She asked.

I paused to think, but before I could answer her, she broke into a fit of coughing. It was that terrible, familiar cough of consumption. I heard again my wife, as she struggled for each breath. Miss Vertiz sounded much like Mary had in those last horrible days.

I rushed forward to where she sat hunched in her chair, gasping. She had pulled a handkerchief from somewhere, and held it to her lips. I put my hand out—

"No!" She jerked away. "I'm sorry—" She coughed hard again, and I spied a spot of red on the white linen. "It will pass, give me a moment."

I put my hands on her back, and felt the rib cage straining. I wished I had my stethoscope with me, but it couldn't be helped. I could feel her pulse: rapid and weak.

Finally, the fit was over, and she leaned back against me, breathing heavily. Her face was flushed, and when I placed my hand on her forehead, I felt a low fever. I cleared my throat.

"How long have you been coughing like this?" I asked seriously. She shrugged her shoulders against me.

"Years." She said softly. "It comes and goes."

I frowned. Miss Vertiz's illness had obviously been lingering longer than my wife's had.

"Come, let's get you into bed." I lifted her spare frame easily into my arms. She smiled weakly.

"I've been waiting all night to hear you say that." I spared her a smirk as I settled her into bed. "I suppose it was a good thing you wanted to talk tonight." She continued, looking at me inquisitorially.

"It seems so." I said, as I dragged over one of the chairs, and sat at the bedside. She was still peering at me.

"Are you a Doctor?" I glanced at her quickly.

"What makes you say that?"

"You knew exactly what to do for my fit, like you had done it a million times before." She turned mischievous eyes at me. "You also seem so very much more comfortable sitting at the side of a bed, than you did at the thought of activities on top of it."

That surprised a laugh out of me. I did feel much more in my element. And even if the actions had unpleasant memories attached, I was glad I could help her.

"So, are you?"

"Well, yes."

She leaned back into her pillows, looking pleased at getting it right, though it was interrupted by a slight cough. I rose to go to the vanity for a drink of water. Pouring the pitcher into a glass I had found there, I saw the box, my goal, sitting there innocently. She couldn't see me from her position on the bed. It would be so easy to slip my hand in, and grab the necklace. I glanced at her as I set the pitcher down.

I took the glass then, and walked round to the side of the four-poster, handing her glass. I couldn't take it. I frowned to myself, while I helped her sit up further. She seemed to be regaining what little strength she had, and she looked at me with probing eyes over the rim as she sipped. She had spirit, this girl. Just as Mary had.

"You have done this before. Not as a Doctor, someone close to you." I started, and stared at her.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Your eyes were full of sad memories."

I was struck, and sat for a moment.

"You are right. My wife...died of a disease such as yours a short time ago."

Her eyes filled with sympathy, and she laid a thin hand on my arm. Then she furrowed her brow.

"I thought you were cheating on your wife?"

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TBC Please R&R!


	12. A Tangled Web

Oh what a tangled web we weave,  
When first we practise to deceive!

Sir Walter Scott** (1771 - 1832)**,

Chapter 11

Blast! This is why I avoided deception; I could never remember all my previous lies, and invariably I would fall into a trap of my own making.

I stammered for a moment after Isabel Vertiz's question, and she sat up straighter, frowning.

"Just who are you, and why are you here, _Doctor, _if you are one?"

I sighed, and rubbed the bridge of my nose. This was why I left this sort of thing to Holmes. In this situation, he would probably charm the woman, lift the necklace and make his escape all without a hair on his head being misplaced. What could I say?

I then straightened up, coming to a decision.

"I came to rob you." I said bluntly. She was shocked.

"What? But I...I don't have anything of value!" Her breath came faster, and I spoke quickly and calmly.

"A gold necklace set with a large ruby. It is entirely genuine, and you were wearing it this evening."

She went very still.

"What do you want with that?"

"I was sent to steal it."

"But, Mor—" I cut her off.

"I know, just—" I leaned forwards, and gripped her hands. "I need it."

She looked at me fearfully, but I could sense a great debate within her.

"Who are you? Who are you working for?" Isabel finally asked in a low, hurried voice.

"And enemy of the gang." Her eyes widened, and this time it was she who were staring at me in blank astonishment. Then she set her lips, and rose slowly. I put my hand under her elbow, but she shook me off, crossing to the vanity table. She opened it, then turned back to me with the flashing jewel dangling from her hand.

"You could have taken it when you poured the water." She said. I nodded. I had no reasons. She looked at me firmly, and I stood under her gaze for a long moment.

"I believe you." She said finally, and stepped forwards with the ruby outstretched. I took it, and placed into my pocket.

"Thank you." She smiled at me suddenly, like a flash of sunlight.

"I liked you, Doctor." I smiled back at her, but said nothing. She turned towards the window, gesturing me out. "I can give you five minutes before I call the alarm. Any more would look suspicious."

"Again, thank you." Isabel crossed to the window, and opened it. I climbed out and was straddled over the sill, when she impulsively leaned over and gave me a kiss on the forehead. I looked at her questioningly, and she grinned.

"That was for taking care of me." I squeezed her hand, and climbed down, calling out as I did so.

"Do get that cough looked at, my dear." She nodded, and shut the window tightly. I paused a moment, feeling the jewel heavy in my pocket, hoping she really did go to a doctor. Then I took a deep breath, and climbed hastily down, feeling my time limit go by rather fast.

A quick glance at my watch showed the time had passed for my rhondevous to hand off the jewel. I would have to write for a new meeting point, and keep the jewel (which already wieghed heavily in my pocket) for the time being.

I had reached the street when I saw the lights go up on the top floor. I took to my heels, reaching the front street, and turning left towards the town centre.

*~*~*~*~

Bare minutes had gone by before I was aware of the sounds of pursuit behind me. The street I was running down echoed with at least three men's calls to each other. They had sighted me!

I ducked into a side street, and felt the jewel in one pocket, the lock picks in the other, both slapping against my sides. I ran full out, for the moonlight shown bright. It was unfortunate, however, for it meant I could not take cover in darkness

They followed me, as I dodged through a few more turnings. My quick gasps marking where I was as easily as I had a sign about my neck.

I sped up, cutting around street lamps and abandoned carts. I leapt over a wooden crate, my coat tails streaming after me.

If I remembered correctly—if I hadn't gotten completely turned around by all the turns I had made- there was a winding alley ahead. I could lose them in its twists and turns, eventually coming out near Hyde Park.

Yes, being dragged all over the city on Holmes' cases did have a distinct advantage.

Footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned again into a narrow passage to my right.

Only to come up short at a tall wooden fence that blocked my way. My breath came in gasps as I looked frantically around for another way, for behind me I could already hear the sounds of running feet in the alley. There was nothing! No side streets, no crevices, nothing so big as even a rodent could crawl into to hide. There was one door along the side wall, and I tried it anxiously. It did not budge.

I cursed and tried again, shaking the door but it still wouldn't open. I was losing valuable time, and I realized that the jewel could not be found if I was caught. I glanced around again this time for a safe hiding place, and my eyes came to rest on the doorstep where rested a large terra cotta flower pot. The twigs inside could hardly be called plants, but the dirt would hide any prying eyes. I withdrew the necklace and wrapped it inside my handkerchief. I then pulled up the plants, and dropped the bundle into the hole, before recovering it.

The loud footfalls were much louder now, and I had scant seconds to try my escape.

I took a running leap at the fence, scrabbling for a hold on the splintery wood. I managed to get a grip on a plank but then I felt them surround me. Rough hands grabbed at my leg, arm and the back of my jacket. I kicked out, but only managed to unbalance myself. I fell hard, but landed on at least one of the men.

Feeling the squirming coat beneath me, I thrust my elbow backwards, and was rewarded with a grunt. I then flung myself into a roll, away from the two other men, who had already regained their feet. The larger, a hairy red-faced man, lunged at me, and grabbed me by the lapels. He dragged me to my feet.

I struggled, rage filling me.

"Unhand me!" I snapped.

My words were cut off as a fist connected with my jaw. I retaliated with a hard kick to the kneecap, and the man buckled, dropping me. The other man came at me then, and my own fist left a nice bruise around his eye. He stepped back, but was not as hindered as I would have liked. He grabbed my left arm, and jerked me downwards, while bringing his knee up to my stomach.

I was gasping, but the small fellow had only winded, and not debilitated me. I struck out again, and his nose gushed blood.

Then suddenly my attempts for air were thoroughly halted. Wire like arms wrapped around my throat, and I was lifted nearly off the ground. My hands gripped the arms that held me, trying to find purchase, to get them off me, but it was no good. My vision started to darken.

The biggest man came dimly into my felid of vision, and what felt like a rock smashed into my nose, then eye. Dazed, I tried once more to get the man off me. I reached back with both hands and struck where I hoped was the eyes, then I elbowed backwards into the abdomen. A howl of pain showed me my aim was true, and I fell forward.

I thought my head was ringing, but I became aware of a shrill whistling sound. A police whistle! I raised my head to see the other men attempting the same route I did; up and over the wall, with little success. Behind me two constables advanced.


	13. Can Not Fool All

A/N: An update!! So DREADFULLY sorry it's been so long! To make up for it, this is the longest chapter yet! Hope you like. Just to recap, we left off with Watson being advanced on by some interfering constables...

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You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not fool all of the people all of the time.

Attributed to Abraham Lincoln

Chapter 12

The two constables hadn't recognized me through the bruising and coating of blood from my gushing nose, and so I was stuffed into the back of the Maria to be taken in for unruly conduct and brawling. I said nothing as they snapped the derbies on me. My head no longer felt fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, and my brain was rushing along with the implications of my actions this evening, and emotions that went with them.

I knew that if I was traced back to the public house, then I could be in trouble for the theft, but that was not really my main concern. Then men I had been fighting with, currently sitting sullenly across from me in the back of the police carriage, would not want to be implicated with a whore house any more than I did. They would say nothing of the burglary, I was almost positive. I also was sure that the dear girl I had treated would not being me up to any of the forces. No, I was content to wait, and retrieve the jewel when I was free from Scotland Yard's well meaning interference.

I was, however, fuming at Holmes. How dare he put me into another of these confounded situations? My slumbering resentment at his three year deception burned again as I combined it with his thoughtlessness concerning me tonight. I hated that I was in yet another position where I would have to lie to the Inspectors at the Yard. Lestrade would be rightly suspicious when I was brought in for fighting in the East End. I was afraid he would take it as another sign of my declining faculties. I did not look forwards to his lecture this night.

I raised my chained hands to rub at my forehead. Truly, I did not want to do this anymore.

We pulled up to Scotland Yard, and I was pulled out of the carriage and led into the building. I kept my head down, but I soon heard the expected exclamation.

"Doctor Watson?!" It was young Stanley Hopkins, who had worked with us on a few cases past. Holmes had thought him full of potential, which was high praise. He was striding towards where I was being held, his face full of confusion and concern. "Doctor, what's going on?" He looked at the Constable behind me. "Wilson, unlock this man!"

Wilson turned to me with a look of apology. He had jumped when he heard my name, and turned red at Hopkins's rebuke. "Sorry, sir." He said, as my hands came free.

"Why was he being brought in?" Hopkins asked.

"We broke up a brawl and tossed them all in the back of the Maria. He didn't say nothing. How was I to know?" He jerked his thumb at me.

"Watson?" They both turned to me. I clenched my jaw, and swallowed.

"It's as he says." I said. "I was fighting."

Hopkins chewed his lips for a moment, then turned to the constable.

"Dismissed, Wilson." Wilson left us, and Hopkins took my arm. "We're going to find Lestrade."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

I had thought that the only person who could bring that particular shade of surprise and confusion to out dear Inspector's face was Holmes himself. Apparently, I had this skill as well.

"But why were you fighting the men, Watson?" He finally asked me, after Hopkins had told his bit. I sighed. I hadn't had the energy to come up with a story, and I couldn't tell the truth. A half-truth it was then.

"They attacked me; I assume they wanted to rob me. I was fighting them off when the constables ran up."

Lestrade accepted this, and scratched a note or two down in his peculiar shorthand.

"But why in heaven were you in that district in the first place?"

"A patient." Lord, I was tired.

"Who was?" My temper flared.

"That is my own business." I snapped, then I raised a trembling hand to my eyes, wincing as I touched the bruises. I had forgotten. I sighed. "Forgive me; can we do this another time?"

Lestrade's eyes, which had been narrowed in suspicion, softened.

"Yes, of course Doctor." He said. "There's no reason to keep you any later," He glanced out the window and gave a soft chuckle. "Or should I say earlier?" For the sun was breaking, and the early dawn light was filtering into the office. I gave him a weak smile, and then Hopkins escorted me out of the building.

"Sorry about that, Watson." He said, as I stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Quite alright." I said, and turned towards the street.

I caught a cab, and climbed in.

"Where to guv'ner?" The cabman called back, and I answered without a moment's thought.

"221B Baker Street."

A rational reason for wanting to go back to Baker Street, rather than my own home was not desiring to frighten my housekeeper, or answer any unwanted questions. However, at the time my only real thought was to be surrounded by the comforting clutter, and familiar sights of that place which I still considered a home in many ways. I was so tired, and I just wanted a place to relax, without three men attacking me, or the remembrance of dying women, or, and perhaps most of all, a little white letter with more instructions for me.

We pulled up at the door, and I entered, using the same key I had had while living here. I never had given it back. I put my battered hat on the hat stand, and my coat on the rack, and then I snuck quietly up to the sitting room.

Once I stepped through the door, I slumped my shoulders and sank into my old chair. I knew I needed to clean up my face, for dried blood still crusted my mustache, but I could not muster the energy to move. I believed it was still slightly early for Mrs. Hudson to be up, and I wanted to be gone before she discovered I had been here, but I felt my long night catching up with me, and I drifted off to the ticking of the mantle clock.

I woke to a sharp gasp, and I jolted up, my hand going to my pocket. My nerves were frazzled, and it was very lucky for Mrs. Hudson that I had decided against bringing my revolver last night. The lady in question set down her duster, and hurried over to where I was half out of the chair.

"Doctor Watson!" She exclaimed, her eyes wide, and taking in my bruised and bloodied face. I'm sure I looked a sight. "Whatever happened? I didn't hear you come in last night?"

I sank back into my chair, and rubbed a ginger hand over my eyes. I sighed.

"This morning, rather." I said, and her face scrunched in that familiar mixture of sympathy, worry and exasperation that I and Holmes had been receiving for years. She stood, and then pulled me up by the arm, taking charge in a way that I was incapable of doing for myself at the moment. She pushed me towards the washroom.

"Go clean yourself up, Doctor, and I'll bring up some breakfast." She peered at my face. "And some coffee, I fancy."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." I said wearily, and did as she had ordered.

The cold water served to rouse me from my stupor, and after shaving (I borrowed Holmes' kit, for I doubted he would mind) I felt more myself again. The smell of breakfast banished the last of the daze, and I felt ready to face life again as I sat down at the small table in the sitting room.

Mrs. Hudson was just laying out the dishes, and I caught her arm as she turned to go.

"Please join me, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked, and she smiled at me.

"Of course, Doctor." She fetched another plate, and I sat down to one of those wonderful meals for which the dear lady was legend.

We made pleasant conversation while we ate, but after setting aside our dishes, she leaned towards me with an earnest look. I sighed internally. I couldn't expect Mrs. Hudson to ignore my atypical presence there at Baker Street. The woman had lived with Sherlock Holmes, after all.

"Now, Doctor?" She looked at me expectantly. "Why in heaven is my former lodger sneaking in during the wee hours of the morning with a bloody nose, and purple eye, and looking as if he hadn't slept all night?"

I winced, and ran a finger over the edge of my glass.

"Perhaps because he hasn't." She frowned at me.

"And just why not?"

I sighed. I had no story for her, my brain was still moving too slowly to think up something on the fly [Note: look up different expression] and I was so very tired of lying. I straightened, and looked her in the eye.

"I'm on a case." At her look of surprise, I leaned forward urgently, laying my hand on hers. "Mrs. Hudson, what would you say if I told you I was on the orders of Sherlock Holmes himself?" I could see her look go from surprise to worry, and I pulled out the envelope I had received earlier that day. "Look, see there. It is his hand, his words. He contacted me two weeks ago, giving me instructions. I had to do so many things..." I leaned back and put my hand over my eyes. I had no desire to see her looks of pity, for she no doubt thought I was a mad man.

I opened my eyes when I heard a shaky gasp. Mrs. Hudson held the letter, and was dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

"Mrs. Hudson..." I was ashamed now of my conduct, of springing this on her.

"Oh, Doctor Watson!" She met my gaze with liquid eyes. "Can it be true?"

I reached out and took her hands between mine.

"He told me that he fell to a ledge, and was knocked unconscious. When he came to and climbed out, everyone was gone, and he decided to disappear in order to better take down the remains of Moriarty's gang. He didn't mean to hurt us." But even as I spoke, I was aware of a simmering anger towards Holmes, which last night had only reawakened. I took a deep breath to calm my trembling nerves. Mrs. Hudson looked up at me with a face full of joy.

"When is he returning?" She asked. "T'is a lucky thing that Mr. Mycroft had me keep the rooms. He'll be able to come back to things just as they were. Oh dear me, look at the state of the curtains, and I must do something about the carpet..." She trailed off into a string of mutters about what chores needed to be done. I cleared my throat.

"I really couldn't say when he'll return. He hasn't told me anything." I didn't think I had shown any of my bitterness, but the lady turned towards me in concern, coming forwards from where she had been taking stock of the rooms, and gripping my hands again, this time to comfort me.

"I'm sure he knows what he is doing, sir. It will all turn out all right, you'll see. He'll come back, and everything will be back to normal."

Will it? I thought, but then raised a smile for her. "I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled back at me, and patted my hand. She then turned back to the immaculate room, and I left to find a bed, and the arms of Morpheus.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A/N: I promise it won't be as long as the wait last time...err, I hope it won't. Don't kill me, but you have permission to throw vegetables if you wish *ducks* TBC!


	14. Stumble On The Truth

A/N: *enters holding an umbrella (Mycroft's of course!)* This is for the fruit I gave permission for everyone to throw...

Late late late... a recap, since it's been soo very long. Watson, who's been receiving letters from who he thinks is Sherlock Holmes (last seen at the Reichenbach falls) has been assigned multiple tasks. These tasks are getting more and more dangerous, and illegal, and this last one ended up with Watson beat up and arrested for brawling. Back at Baker Street, he folded under the strain of the secret of Holmes' survival, and told Mrs. Hudson. He's now very upset with Holmes...

SH SH SH SH SH

Man will occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of the time he will pick himself up and continue on.  
**Winston Churchill**

Chapter 1

**Note from the Honourable Ronald Adair to Doctor Will Johnson, March 30, 1894, 8:45am.**

My dear fellow,

You simply must come and play with me tonight. I am a partner short, and I would love to have your company for the evening! If it is congenial to you, I will meet you at the Bagatelle Club at a quarter to eight.

Yours most sincerely

Ronald

**Returned letter to Ronald Adair from Doctor Will Johnson, at the residence of Doctor John Watson, March 30, 1894, 9:32am.**

Ronald,

That sounds most appealing. I've had a trying week, and your company would be most pleasurable. I will see you tonight.

W

After sleeping for about four hours, I dressed and returned to the East End to retrieve the jewel. I entered the alleyway where I had had the encounter that morning, limping a little, and holding my arm stiffly. The roughing up I had received did not do me any favours. I reached the pot, and scrabbled a bit in the dirt, before coming up with the handkerchief wrapped necklace. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Tucking it securely in my pocket, I turned to go back home.

I entered my consulting rooms to find a dreadfully familiar envelope. It was more instructions, or more likely a reprimand at my bumbling burglary attempts, and failure to meet with my contact. I stared at the script of my friend, and then turned away. I had no desire to ruin this evening, the first true fun I've had for some time, in the harsh words of Holmes' ire.

No, I would go to play cards with Adair. Holmes could wait.

**Urgent Telegram to Emile Sigerson, Paris, France from M. Holmes, Pall Mall, London England. **

S STOP W HAS BEEN RECIVING INSTRUCTIONS STOP MRS H SAYS KNOWS YOURE ALIVE STOP RETURN AT ONCE STOP I FEAR FOR HIM FINAL STOP MH

**Telegram reply to M. Holmes, Pall Mall, London, England from Emile Sigerson, Le Havre, France.**

COMING FINAL STOP

I met Adair outside the club, and he greeted me with a smile.

"Doctor Johnson, how are you?" He asked shaking my hand. I winced slightly to hear my false name. Holmes had once remarked how awkward it was to conduct business under an alibi; pleasure was more so. I regretted that I hadn't just dispensed with the subterfuge before, for I couldn't very well tell the fellow that I had lied to him from the first. Oh well.

"Well enough, Adair," I returned, "And you?"

His face clouded over, and he glanced around.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment before we play?" He asked in a low voice.

"Of course. I am at your disposal," I said, and we entered into a small side hallway. He turned to me with a look of grave concern on his face. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry to bother you with this, I don't know who else to tell. I really just want some advice, if you're willing to listen?" He rubbed his hand over his face, then looked back at me. "I wonder if you remember meeting Colonel Moran that first night you were here?"

"Yes."

"He and I were partners, we played regularly and we were quite good. We won often—oh how I wish I had seen it sooner!" He broke off, clenching his fists. I put my hand on his arm.

"Calm yourself, and tell me from the beginning."

He took a breath. "Last week, during a game, I finally saw how _lucky_ we really were," He said, his mouth twisting. "He palmed cards, had been all along, and I never saw it." He bowed his head.

"I regret to say I did not confront him then, but allowed him to finish the game –in our favour, I might add. My conscience, however, would not let me sleep. The next day I played with you. I had not yet confronted him, though I think he knew I had realized.

"I waited longer than I should have, struggling with what I should do. You must understand; the man was my friend. I had no desire to see him disgraced, for that is what a confrontation would come to. In the end, I saw what must be done."

He raised his eyes to mine, and I saw the shock in them.

"Last night I went to his house to confront him. I wanted to see what he would say in private before taking such public steps. I was shown into the sitting room by a maid, and told to wait. Naturally, I waited for some time without action, but I'm convinced that maid forgot I was in there. So after a half hour, I was restless.

"Then I heard raised voices from a room down the hall. One of them was Moran, and I got closer in order to hear. I wish to God I had not!"

He covered his mouth with a hand. I leaned forwards towards him.

"What did you hear?"

"Moran was speaking to other men, speaking in such a way as I have never heard him sound. Ordering, it seemed to be some kind of meeting.

'Are all the jewels accounted for, Levitt's?'

'Err, no sir. We're waiting on the last one. Your man is supposed to get it tonight.'

'Ah, yes. I remember.' Moran paused there. 'You are to meet him outside the whore house, correct, Mr. Schmidt?'

'Aye, sir.'

'What about the removal operation?'

'All three men are taken care of, Colonel.'

'Good. It was becoming dangerous to keep them alive.'

"They went on for a while longer like that, talking about felonies, and murders, and worse..." He turned to me, his face stricken. "You can imagine my horror."

"But what happened? What did you do?" I was at rapt attention, for this sounded very very dangerous. Adair's voice went soft and hoarse.

"I fled." He glanced around again, and as he did so I felt my adrenalin jump. "I'm convinced that Moran did not see me while I was there, but if that idiot maid mentioned me—" He gulped. "I'm a dead man, I'm sure of it."

He suddenly seemed to become aware of our surroundings, and he pulled on a smile as one would pull on a hat. The effect was startling after his pronouncement.

"Come," he said, and laughed. "Let's get in there, or they are sure to start the game without us."

Once we were moving, I leaned close.

"Be on your guard, Ronald. These men are dangerous, there's no doubt."

He gave me a wide eyed look, and nodded.

This was the game that Adair had agreed to play with Moran the week before. We could see the man already sitting at the table as we came up. His grizzled features and nasty scar gave me the impression of a ruthless hunter now. Adair, and I as well, would have to be very careful this evening.

"Adair! I see you've brought your good luck charm again." He gestured to me, and I smiled, with a little difficulty. Adair smiled too, more easily than I, and gestured at me.

"Doctor Will Johnson, Colonel. I'm sure you remember him." I shook Moran's hand.

"Of course, of course. Good to see you again." We all took a seat, and after a bit more small talk the game started.

SH SH SH SH SH SH

A/N: I really apologize for the lateness of this, and my general absence from ff, I ended up taking a kind of hiatus for many reasons which you probably aren't interested in. Thanks for reading, feel free to use the comments to rant at me...or you know, comment. Those are nice too :)


	15. Many That Live

A/N: Bahaha! A timely update! Aren't you all amazed! Here is the new chapter, credit for Alphie goes to KCS, everyone else belongs to ACD, and not me.

* * *

**"Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life." J.R.R Tolkien**

SH SH SH SH SH SH SH SH

It was a somewhat tense game, at least from my point of view. We played for a few good rounds, with fine results for Adair and myself. How this happened I cannot tell, save that I focused on the game in order to avoid giving myself away in conversation.

Moran was a criminal. That much I knew for certain, and hearing Ronald's report of a society that quietly removes those men that get in their way caused my mind to leap to Moriarty's organization. Could he be involved in all that?

Finally, to my relief, Adair stood up at precisely ten.

"Leaving so soon, Adair?" Moran asked him lazily. Adair nodded.

"I'm afraid so." He turned to me. "I wonder, Johnson, if you'd like to accompany me? I have that book you wanted to see at my home." He looked at me, imploring me to not give up the game. Luckily I'd had more than enough practice at picking up a deception, and playing along.

"Of course! We could share a cab." I stood as well, and shook hands around the table. Moran's eyes glinted at me. He then leaned forwards and peered at Adair.

"I do hope you'll take care tonight?" He smiled, and I imagined a tiger's gaping maw. "It's supposed to turn nasty."

Adair nodded nervously, and we left together with the sinister words floating after us.

It wasn't until we entered the cab that Adair relaxed to some extent. He blew out a breath of air, and ran his hand through his hair.

"Well that was a threat if I've ever heard one." He muttered to me. "Not that I've ever heard one before now…" He shook his head. "How did I ever get mixed up in this mess?"

I looked at him pityingly, yet inside I was steeling myself. I was going to tell him everything, Holmes be damned.

"You do get used to it I'm afraid." I began. He furrowed his brow, under those ginger bangs.

"What do you mean?"

I leaned forwards.

"I'm not unused to death threats against my person. In fact, there was a time when I, and my friend, had more murder attempts within a week than we did social invitations." He was staring at me in confusion. I began again.

"Will Johnson is not my real name. I'm Doctor John Watson," His eyes widened.

"You wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories," He breathed. I nodded, wanting to stay on topic.

"The stories are true, and I have very real enemies. Ones who would kill without a thought."

"Like Moran."

"Like Moran. I was told by…another source…that you might be in danger—" Well, not really. Holmes hadn't told me anything of the sort, but this was what I assumed it was all about. "I came to the club that night we met with the sole purpose of finding you, and giving you what protection I could."

He seemed flabbergasted, sinking back into his seat.

"This is sounding more and more like a dime spy novel." He muttered, running another hand over his face. "So what do we do now?"

"Right now, you are going home. I'll stand guard tonight. In the morning we'll go to the police. I have contacts there."

"Why not go to the police now?" He asked a trifle nervously, though that was completely understandable.

I'd thought the same thing, but I wanted time to think this over, and maybe get an express message to Holmes if I could. Moran wouldn't try anything so soon, I reckoned.

In addition, Adair had all that ill-acquired money from the cheated game players.

"You need time to organize the winnings, and find out whom to give them back to." He nodded reasonably.

We'd arrived at his home on Park Lane, and my eyes took in the surroundings. A straight, nice little road with houses on both sides. Adair's was well kept, as were most on the street, save a few that looked empty on the opposite side. My soldier's training was on the look out for hiding places, and any moving cover, but there was very little.

We arrived at the door, and Adair pulled out his key. He had a bit of trouble with the lock, as his hands were trembling slightly, but he managed. Overall, I was quite impressed with his calm, and quick thinking in a sudden situation like this.

We entered the quiet house.

"My mother and sister are out at a relative's tonight." Ronald said, explaining the quiet. "They will not be back for some time."

"Yes, I'd imagine not."

Adair led me up the stairs. All the while I was taking in my surroundings, and assessing potential threats. The flat was nice, open and elegant. There was a clear woman's touch, from the mother and sister evidently, and not many places to hide. However, I knew from experience that assassins knew how to become invisible in places no one would think possible.

We reached the top of the stairs, and I put out a hand, gesturing that I should go first. Adair nodded, and dropped back. I stepped forwards, wishing dearly that I had my gun.

"Which is your room?" I breathed to Ronald, and he gestured to the closed door near the end of the hall. There were four other closed doors before reaching it, and I knew someone could be hiding in any one.

I gave Adair a meaningful look, then at the closest door. He immediately got my meaning, and again I was impressed by his nerve.

Adair followed close behind me as I slowly turned the doorknob to the first room. I edged the door open and peered into the room. Seemingly empty.

I stepped carefully in, and looked around, walking swiftly now to the closet (look up) and under the large bed in the center. It was clear.

Adair was standing in the middle of the room, eyes sweeping the sides as well. Then his caught mine.

"Nothing here?" He murmured. I shook my head. Then I noticed a woman's riding outfit lying out on a chair, and on top, a riding crop. I grabbed it, it was better than nothing.

We did the same in the rest of the rooms, and found nothing.

"Well that's a relief." Adair breathed as we finished checking his sitting room, last in the hall. I was still gripping the riding crop tightly; I shook my head at him.

"It isn't over."

He bowed his head, and breathed out slowly.

"No, it isn't, is it?"

There was a smoky fire burning in the grate, and the window was open, letting in the cool evening air. I was glad of it. I was hot with adrenalin.

Adair moved towards the desk, pulling out a small key and opening the safe underneath it. Inside there was a good quantity of money, which he laid out on the desktop, along with a small stationary pad (look up?).

"I need to work out how much I owe to everyone I've played with that man." He said, with a bit of venom. I nodded.

"If you don't mind, I will stand guard over you tonight inside the house. Then in the morning, we shall head over to Scotland Yard." He agreed. He settled at the desk.

I was feeling increasingly naked without my revolver by now, so I turned back towards the door.

"I need to send a message." I said, and he turned to me a little worried. "I'll just step outside the front door." I reassured. He fiddled with his pen, looking at it in his hands. I saw his nervousness, and I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Ronald, you have handled this marvelously. You are one of the bravest men I've known." I squeezed the shoulder I was holding gently, and turned to go. "I will be quick."

"Thank you, Johnson." He broke of, a funny look coming to his face. "Though I supposed I should call you Dr. Watson?"

I saw now his pain at being told that his new friend was only there on orders; I felt a need to restore his confidence.

"Adair, I would have been your friend, orders or no." I assured. "I genuinely enjoy your company, and I hope we can continue our friendship after all this mess it over?"

He grinned, and nodded emphatically, his ginger hair bouncing atop his brow.

I turned, and headed out the door.

"Lock the door behind me." I said. "I'll knock four times." I gave a rap on the doorframe to demonstrate, and then turned to go.

I heard the door click behind me as I made my way through the hall, and down the stairs, riding crop still at the ready. I saw no one, and let myself out.

The street was clear outside. There was no one about, but I could see the shape of Adair through the upstairs window, shadowed against the lamp. I looked around for any of the street network that Holmes had set up those years ago. I knew a certain two toned whistle would send any urchins within hearing distance running, so I put my fingers in my mouth and blew.

After a moment's silence, I heard the patter of small feet. Then Alfie, and the small mute boy from the other day—I think Pip was his name –ran up to me. They came to a stop in front of me, and tipped their caps.

"Wotcher, Doctor." Alfie greeted, grinning at me. He'd lost another tooth between now, and the time I spoke to him before. I wondered if he'd let me take a look as a doctor? Probably not.

I smiled at the boys, and bent down to their level.

"Hello Alfie, Pip." I was right about the name, as he smiled and nodded at me. "Listen closely. I have another job for you," I pulled out a sovereign, and their eyes widened. I held it closely between my fingers.

"Is that for us, guv?" Alfie asked excitedly. I smiled again.

"If you accomplish what I'm about to ask. This is a matter of life or death."

They both promptly stood up at a mocking attempt at military attention.

"You can count on us, sir!"

"I need you to retrieve my revolver from Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson should let you in, if not, you know how to get inside. Get the gun and the ammunition from the locked drawer inside my old room. Use this key." I said firmly, handing the little key to them. I didn't want them breaking my lock with their admittedly good lock picking.

"Roight away, Doc!" Alfie cried, dragging little Pip after him. I called after them.

"Carry it carefully!" I pursed my lips, feeling uneasy about letting a child traipse about London with a revolver in his pocket. At least he wouldn't know how to load it. The two disappeared out of sight in the dark night.

I took a breath, still feeling tense. All my instincts said that Adair was in danger, and I was determined to protect him, however I could. I turned to go back inside.

As I did, there was a hiss above my head, sounding like a large insect or an arrow. I looked up, and saw within a split second the silhouette of Adair jerk backwards, and I heard the sound of an impact. My mouth went dry. A moment later, Adair's shadow fell backwards, and there was something horribly wrong about his head…like it was…squashed out of shape.

"No!" I whispered, seeing him fall. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the now empty window. I stood still in shock.

I took a step towards the front door to Adair's flat, wanting to go inside, to check. He couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. That vibrant young man whom I had known for only a few weeks. I counted up. Two. Two weeks, and now he was dead.

But then my military training kicked in. A shot meant there was a shooter. It was simple, and I was still in the firing range.

I whirled, and looked at the row of houses opposite. Any kind of shot would have had to come from across the street, second story. And though I couldn't imagine what kind of gun or bow could propel something so silently hard enough to kill a man, my time with Holmes had taught me that what seemed impossible sometimes happened, and there way always an explanation.

Following a line of flight from Ronald's open window backwards, I knew it had to have been shot from the window opposite. It was dark, silent, but that window was open. I ran towards the empty house.

* * *

A/N: Didja see what I did there? Empty house...cause It's an EMPT AU...yeah, I was amused.

I was super sad that I had to kill off Adair! If only he didn't really die, cause I liked him! *pout*

Tell me what you think, even if you hate me for killing Adair!


	16. Stolen From Us

A/N: Here is another chapter, pounded out in the early hours of the morning in my attempt to prepare for nano by getting used to having a working brain at 6am. We'll see how it works. Hope you like this chapter! It's Holmes! Finally!

* * *

"If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever." The Crow

The ship ride over from France was a lesson in enduring torment. I discovered I was too anxious to sit still on the boat, and too distracted to notice the sights of a country I hadn't seen in almost three years. I paced the decks, cursing at the sluggish movement which was all a boat this size had to offer. Why couldn't it go faster?

My hand clenched around the last telegram from my brother, crushing the already ineligible words. It didn't matter, I knew what it said, and it made my stomach churn in worry. How could Watson know that I am alive? _I_ didn't tell him, and the only other person in the world who knows is Mycroft, and he did not reveal my dreadful secret either. To everyone else, all the strangers I pass I as travel, I am Emile Sigerson, and Sherlock Holmes is a legend long dead.

I ran a hand over my face. Of course that would soon change.

Mycroft met me at the docks, and gestured me over to him. I felt a flash of annoyance. I had been quite proud of this disguise (an old bent bookseller with frazzled grey hair) and was put out that he could see through it so clearly.

"Of course I could decipher it was you through all that …spirit gum, is it?" He called to me as I approached. "You must be more conscientious about applying your wrinkles, Sherlock." I rolled my eyes, and set down my worn bag.

"Where is he?" I asked in a low urgent voice. Mycroft's face darkened.

"We don't know." I felt my heart go cold.

"Explain." I ground out.

"My contact lost him earlier this evening, sometime before ten at the Bagatelle club." I glanced at my pocket watch.

"That was over an hour ago!" I whipped up my bag, and stalked towards the street. Mycroft followed me, and directed me towards a cab he already had waiting. I got in, and sat back, fuming. Mycroft settled his bulk across from me, and leaned forwards.

"Sherlock—"

"You were supposed to keep an eye on him!" I burst out. I started agitatedly removing the false wrinkles and wig that made up my disguise. There was no point now. Let people know. Sherlock Holmes was alive, if not well now, hopefully would soon be.

Mycroft's face didn't change at my accusation, and I hated him a little bit for it.

"We did the best we could, but he thought he was following orders from you, and you taught him well."

I humphed, and sat back, my arms folded.

"Do you realize how much you look like a pouting child at times?" Mycroft asked me, his voice smug. I didn't deign to reply to that.

"We are headed to the Bagatelle club, I assume?" I asked coolly.

"Naturally." He said with a nod.

"Good"

The rest of the drive was silent, with both of us deep in our thoughts. I was going over and over what little data I knew, but I really did not have enough to work with.

First fact: My friend Doctor Watson had started acting strange three weeks ago, according to my brother's report.

Second Fact: Watson had taken part in various little tasks. We didn't know what they were, he'd hidden his tracks well, but they were most likely not as legal as some would hope.

Third Fact: According to Mrs. Hudson, Watson knew I was alive, which is impossible, and was following orders from me, also impossible since I hadn't given him any orders.

Fourth Fact: Watson was now missing.

Hypothesis: Someone masquerading as myself is deceiving Watson, in order to use him to their own ends.

"Data, I need more data." I muttered. Mycroft said nothing.

Finally we arrived at the Bagatelle club. It was ten minutes past eleven, and when we went inside, most tables were empty. There were a few people still playing, a server standing by the door, and looking at us curiously, and a tall, blonde man tugging on his coat. I banged on the wall behind me, and cleared my throat.

"If everyone could give me a moment?" I announced in a loud voice. Most people looked up puzzled. "I'm looking for a man. He's a doctor, middle aged. This tall," I held out my hand. "Brown hair, with a military mustache." No one answered, and most just looked bemused. However, my eye caught a change of expression on the face of the man getting ready to leave. I stalked over to him.

"Did you see such a man?" I demanded. He looked startled.

"Well, I… I was playing with a military doctor earlier this evening." He said, confused and I think a bit frightened at my intense manner. I tried to calm myself.

"What was his name?"

"Uh, Johnson I believe. Will Johnson." I tried out the syllables in my mind, and decided that it still could be him. He would come up with such a flimsy pseudonym.

"When did he leave? And was he with anyone?"

The man pulled out a pocket watch, his face creasing in concentration.

"It…must have been about a half hour ago." He said slowly. I resisted the urge to throttle him. Speak faster! "And he left with Mr. Ronald Adair." He pulled out a calling card with the man's name and address printed on it. I grabbed it, and turned to go, when he spoke again. "Of course, Moran did leave fairly soon after them...seemed a bit strange, since he said he was going to play another game." He was musing to himself, but at that name my blood ran cold.

"What did you say? Who was playing?" I leaned forwards, almost directly in his face. "Who was it? The name, man! Speak!"

The blonde man was startled, and stammered out a name I'd hoped to never hear again, though I should not have been surprised.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran."

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A/N: Eek! Now Holmes knows what's going on...sorta :) Please tell me what you think! Really, it makes my **week** to hear from you readers!


	17. The Secret of Success

"The secret of success lies not in doing your own work, but in recognizing the right man to do it" Andrew Carnigie

My fingers held the riding crop firmly as I pushed open the door to the vacant house. It was slightly ajar. I definitely knew now that I was in the correct place. The house beyond was silent, and the creaking of the floor boards as I stepping inside was deafening.

The room was dark, and dust floated everywhere, covering the floor and sheeted furniture with a thin layer of particles. The dim light from the street outside, and shining in through the cracked windows of the sitting room, showed a trail of misplaced dust on the floor. There were a few clear foot prints, leading upstairs. This only confirmed what I'd already expected; the murderer of Ronald Adair had shot some weapon across the street, and in through the open window of Adair's sitting room, directly where he'd been sitting, open for the kill. It was fantastic shot, and I wondered what kind of device shoot so well, and so silently.

I began following the trail inwards, and up the stairs, instinctively not stepping in the previous footprints, so as to leave them for evidence. I was highly aware of the creaking of the floorboards, for though I tried to move silently, I knew that whoever was yet on the upper level knew I was there.

I crept up the stairs, pausing when I hear a slight noise; a calm double-step. He was ready for me, and I must be ready for him.

I wished again for my revolver. I had not had the time to wait for Alfie –I could not let this man escape. I kept my grip on the riding crop, but it wasn't the only weapon I had. The men sitting in a gaol cell at Scotland Yard were proof of my ability at hand fighting. No, I would not let this man get away unpunished for murder.

Anger and determination filled me, and I gritted my teeth. And raced up the rest of the stairs. I burst through the landing door, towards where I had heard the sounds.

Then I stopped. There was nothing there.

I breathed in, looking around slowly. Another empty, dusty room. Then, a flash of movement in the corner of my eye.

In an alcove behind the door was a tall, broad shape. The murderer.

He leapt out, and I was not startled to see a familiar scar adorning his face. It was Moran. He flew at me, and I whipped the riding crop across his face. I was aiming for his eyes, but I missed, and caused a great welt to open up the skin from his ear to opposite cheekbone. He fell back, and I rushed towards him. I reached for his arms to restrain him, but he raised a wooden tube, like a walking stick, bit slightly thicker. He knocked my arm out of the way, causing a jolt to flow up it, but little damage from what I could tell. I grabbed the stick them, and we struggled to gain control of it.

Then the whack on the arm, combined with my bad shoulder made my left arm buckled slightly. It was enough for him to swing the stick forwards and knock me around the head with it. Cursing my weakness, I stepped back out of the swinging range, shaking the stars out of my eyes. He stood still now, not attacking but grinning at me. His scar and swelling welt together made a horrid parody of a second smile

"So, Doctor John Watson." I tried to hide my surprise at his using my true name. I'd only ever introduced myself as Will Johnson, though I supposed the alibi was a bit thin. "Yes, I know your true name. I know much about you, and your friend, Sherlock Holmes."

I glared at him coldly; he was trying to intimidate me, to trick me into giving away something. He could have sound out that information in any number of ways. My face was in the drawings for heavens sake!

He spoke again, gingerly wiping the droplets of blood from his face with the tips of his fingers.

"Tell me. Have you enjoyed out little game?" I frowned, one eye brow slightly cocked.

"I do not know what you mean." I answered firmly.

He smiled again, and I had to suppress a shiver.

"I meant the letters, my dear sir." He took on the air of one reciting a speech or a poem, his hands clasping on the top of his stick. "'You must be wondering how it is I am writing to you, why I am alive, and why I did not tell you of this. Well the fact is that I was protecting you and your family…had it been discovered that I was alive…your life would have been worth nothing at all.'" My breath left my chest. Those were the words from the letter, from Holmes' letter. The very first one. The one I had read over and over in joy. How could Moran have that?

"Now truthfully, did you really believe that? I suppose you must have, since you followed almost all the instructions to the letter. You actually believed that your supposed 'best friend' could be so cruel, to let you think he was dead for three years. Wouldn't he have found some way to get a message to you? He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. From your stories, one would have thought he could do anything."

I had not reacted, had not allowed myself to show the rolling shock, and disbelief that was coursing through me. Horror now loosed my tongue.

"You will explain yourself, sir." I said in a low tone. He smirked.

"I was surprised at how easy it was. Forged handwriting from a stolen document. Dialogue from your oh-so-helpful stories. It was easy to pretend to be Sherlock Holmes. Luckily for me, he was enough of a bastard to you that you'd even accept that he'd left you in the dark, to mourn him needlessly for three years.

My heart was beating fast, and my breath was coming in quick gasps. It could not be true!

"You are lying!"

"You would like that wouldn't you?" He shifted his stance, the shadows of the dark room throwing a hideous elongation of the scar and welt. "But if I were lying to you, then how could I know that you were asked to learn about Perry Northup, and then steal the government document he so stupidly left on his desk. Thank you for that by the way. It's been infinitely advantageous. I know what happened to the cab man who saw you. I know about dear Isobel, and the jewel. You still haven't handed that over, you know?"

I was shaking my head, denial raging, yet underneath was a hidden current of pain, and grief that had only been covered up. If this were true, then my friend was well and truly dead.

Greif turned to rage so quickly that Moran took a step back at the change in my features. How dare he! How dare he tell me these things! I lunged, and struck him a hard hit in the face. He staggered back, but brought his stick up. In my fury I did not dodge fast enough, and the end caught me in the mouth. I spat blood –no teeth, luckily –and lashed out again. This time he sidestepped, and brought the stick down hard on my neck and shoulders. I dropped onto my hands and knees, head throbbing. After a second's check for spinal damage, I leapt up again. Then a blade flashed in the light from the street, and there was a sharp, burning pain in my side. My momentum continued carrying my forwards, digging the dagger deeper into me. I gasped, my anger fading in the face of an overwhelming numbness.

Then there was another blow to the side of my head, and bright lights flashed before my eyes.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! Hope you enjoyed this update :) Watson knows it's all been a trick! Getting closer to the end now.


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